


The Stars Might Lie, But the Numbers Never Do

by FrenchTwistResistance



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: F/F, File under: excuses to use gambling metaphors, File under: excuses to write SO MUCH dialogue, Humor, Pretty much everybody makes an appearance at some point, some romance and angst but mostly just hijinks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:40:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 50,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26984539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrenchTwistResistance/pseuds/FrenchTwistResistance
Summary: Flirting, rumors, confrontations, not as much skinny dipping as one might hope, a little more drinking than is necessary. Oh, and of course, a friendly wager.
Relationships: Kathryn Janeway/B'Elanna Torres, Seven Of Nine/Samantha Wildman
Comments: 44
Kudos: 44





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Slightly au in that Blood Fever never happened, thus events never occurred that led to Tom and B’Elanna having gotten together. Also, they haven’t received word that the rest of the Maquis are dead. I’m trying to have a fun little sit-com here, not trying to bring up a bunch of B’Elanna’s trauma.
> 
> Also, set before The Killing Game, of course.

Alpha shift has ended, and half of the engineering crew has opted to go for dinner and drinks at the luau program. This holoprogram isn’t as popular as it used to be. Sandrine’s has also fallen out of favor. B’Elanna’s not sure why. They’re both fun and easy and good places for a variety of communal activities. She doesn’t really get the trend toward more personalized programs that are open only to a select few. But then again, maybe she does get it. They’re all always together, always on top of each other, metaphorically, certainly, but sometimes literally—in Jefferies tubes fixing bio-neural gel packs or eps conduits or… well, being too hungover to endure small talk on the turbolift and figuring the exercise will help you sweat out the alcohol and you run into someone else in the same condition.

B’Elanna honestly prefers the public holoprograms. They’re a little generic, but she likes the false anonymity of it. She can almost pretend that she’s back home at a skeevy bar, being leered at by people she doesn’t know but are archetypes of all the people she’s always been leered at by and then fortuitously seeing someone she knows so she can find a more private space to talk and escape the scrutiny—whether that initial leering and scrutiny had been about her forehead ridges or her tits. 

In a more personalized holoprogam, there’s just her and whoever had invited her and whatever their particular interest was, a reminder that there was only Voyager here. Only the same old people and their same old interests. She likes getting to know people. She likes learning about people’s proclivities. But this thing where everybody’s just making their own individualized holoprogram reminds her that her opportunity for the novel stimulation of meeting new people is finite, restricted to the 140 individuals onboard, 140 individuals that she already knows and in fact sometimes recites in alphabetical order to fall asleep. A communal holoprogram is less of a reminder—more populated by holograms that are lifelike enough and besides—the atmosphere is different. It’s like having a garden in your backyard with all the plants you like and can cultivate but then visiting a pumpkin patch and corn maze operation. It’s the same on paper—the growing of vegetables. But the reason is different. The encounter is different.

So. B’Elanna’s happy to go to a public holoprogram. Although. The luau is not her favorite. Her favorite is one Chell had programmed that’s a Bolian casino—all crazy neon and shouting and the dinging of slot machines and oiled-up wrestling in the decorative fountain in the center of the establishment. But it had never gained much traction. Maybe it’s a little too raucous and foreign for it to serve as an after-shift wind down. Her second favorite is the Coeur de Lion. It’s not very well known and populated mostly by holograms, but it’s this World War II bar that’s a blind for the French Resistance. One can just enjoy the bar part or play through a short holonovel all about espionage. She enjoys just getting all dolled up and listening to pretty music and smoking holographic cigarettes and flirting using bizarre, sassy, 20th-century innuendo. She doesn’t know who’d programmed it. Her original suspicion had been Tom, but she’d asked him and he’d denied it. She’d believed him for a couple of reasons: one, he wasn’t great at lying to her, and two, the parameters of it weren’t very him. When the real Janeway didn’t come in to clean up at poker, the holographic simulation of her would appear as the proprietor in a white, sequined tuxedo. If Tom had programmed it, Janeway would’ve been more femme—a cocktail dress and seamed stockings, or perhaps an evening gown with a long slit. He fundamentally doesn’t understand how hot a woman can be in a tuxedo and would never have included that detail. But all that’s neither here nor there. The portion of the engineering crew who’ve decided to have dinner and drinks tonight have decided on Neelix’s tropical paradise, mostly because of Susan Nicoletti’s sudden pointed interest in it.

“Look, I know nobody goes to the Paxau Resort program anymore. But. I have it on good authority that because nobody goes there anymore, the science team has requisitioned it for their Wednesday night dinners. If we joined them, we could make a real party of it,” Nicoletti had said.

Vorik had raised an eyebrow, said,

“It is a logical assumption to believe that Samantha Wildman, the object of your affection at this time, would be present at that location. However, it is illogical to believe that she will give you the attention you desire, as she is married. To a male. I do not presume to know her specific sexuality, but that common knowledge is a significant clue. It is also logical to assume you will be ‘in love’ with a different crew member next week, as you have shown a marked volatility in this area.”

“Why you gotta drag me like that?” Nicoletti had said.

“Let him be,” Carey had said. “He’s not dragging you deliberately. Facts are facts.”

B’Elanna had laughed, and she had expected Nicoletti to get cross as she herself would’ve at having been read for filth in the same way. But Nicoletti seemingly hadn’t been bothered. She’d merely blinked a few times and then said,

“Yeah. Facts are facts. And the fact of the matter is, if Wildman’s got enough tequila in her, she likes to skinny dip. And that’s an activity that’s more fun in pairs. And I intend to be there when the pairing off part happens this time.”

“This time?” B’Elanna had said. She’d never spoken much to Samantha Wildman, had never been close to her, had never peeked into the fantasies of a holoprogram she’d designed. She had known her name and face, sure, but this detail. It had been thrilling to have a new detail, a new intimacy. 

The other three had snapped their respective attention to her at this question. They had all been looking at her funny, as if she had been asking something obscene rather than something pretty regular. She wondered about that. How casually coming up with a plan to manufacture the circumstances to encourage a known skinny dipper to skinny dip was ok but asking about other previous incidents of skinny dipping was not. Maybe it had been more about her excitement about it—she wasn’t usually the type to need details like that. Finally Nicoletti had said,

“Yeah. This time. Last time we were on shore leave, and some weirdo alien with three dicks accompanied her as she disrobed and jumped into a weirdly yellow brook. Don’t know what exactly happened there because I had to beam back to Voyager to fix a conduit relay line. But really. Three dicks seems excessive. A lot of work for a woman unused to that sort of thing. If she’s got enough tequila in her to skinny dip, and I’m there instead—” B’Elanna had seen the glint in her eye that meant she was going to circle back to the three dicks thing sooner rather than later.

“Fucking A,” Carey had said. “If you promise not to finish telling us about this scenario you’re concocting, I will go to Paxau with you.” 

And so Nicoletti, Vorik, Carey, and B’Elanna are walking into Holodeck One, having already changed into the appropriate clothing for the occasion.

B’Elanna wants to go to the bar, order something strong and sweet and served out of half a coconut. But Nicoletti’s got her by the elbow and is steering her elsewhere.

It’s a picnic table—except not rough pine with chipping red paint, like the picnic tables in parks of her youth, but immaculate and gleaming alien wood—and a handful of various officers who are sometimes the science team and sometimes security and sometimes just whatever is needed are sitting at it with drinks and appetizers strewn in front of them.

She runs through the crew manifest that she so often uses as a sleep aid to identify all of them: Jenny Delaney, Zack Murphy, Kashimuro Nozawa, Renlay Sharr, and Samantha Wildman.

They’re all loose and free. They’re talking and eating and drinking and joking. And oblivious to the intrusion that’s about to happen to them.

Nicoletti relinquishes her hold and plops onto the bench seat on the edge next to Wildman.

B’Elanna stays where she is, waits. She wants to get a tentative idea of just how bad it’s going to go so she can start working on an exit strategy.

“I thought I was the only one who liked this program,” Nicoletti says flirtatiously. “But what a nice surprise to see I was wrong about that.”

The science team flinches individually but also corporately. Nicoletti is fun and smart and silly, but she can be a jarring presence sometimes. B’Elanna watches as the group reacts to her. And Vorik and Carey are at her shoulder, also watching. Carey says quietly,

“She’s not super good at seduction. You think we should intervene? As wingmen?”

“‘Wingman.’ A tactically significant adjacent aircraft that provides distraction and cover fire. I think I understand the metaphor,” Vorik says.

“She needs all the wingmen she can get.” B’Elanna says. 

She strides forward and sits on the other side of Samantha Wildman, says,

“We can’t blame you for choosing to meet in a clandestine location. Mind if we join?”

Jenny Delaney shrugs, says,

“It’s a public access program running at a public access time.”

“Less than a ‘ringing endorsement’ as the saying goes I believe,” Vorik says as he takes a seat next to Sharr.

“But we’ll take it,” Carey says as he sits next to Nozawa.

Wildman laughs, says,

“We’re not trying to hide out, and anybody’s welcome. As Seven might say, we are a collective.”

Nicoletti frowns, says,

“But what might you say?”

“Well. I wouldn’t not say we’re a collective,” Wildman says. “Although it’s not exactly in my dialect.”

“Not yet anyway,” Sharr says. B’Elanna listens a little more attentively. Sharr had said it a little suggestively, and she wonders if there’s more to it. “It’s already in Naomi’s, so it’ll get to you through osmosis.” Right, that. Maybe she’d merely thought it had been suggestive when really it had been teasing.

“True,” Wildman says. And then she cocks her head, pauses, then, “You know, I like Seven. I’ve worked with her a few times in astrometrics, and she’s been over for dinner a few times, and she’s very good to my kid. But I worry about her. She doesn’t have private quarters or a uniform or many friends except for, well. My kid. Maybe we should’ve invited her tonight.”

Nicoletti’s really frowning now. She says,

“And what would she have said to that? ‘An inefficient use of time.’?” Delaney narrows her eyes at Nicoletti, says,

“No, she would have said, ‘Thank you for the invitation, but I am on duty at that time.” Carey and B’Elanna share a “yikes” look at the admonition in her voice, and then she continues, “But you’ve got a point, Sam. I like her, too, but I just don’t know what to invite her to. What does she like to do?”

“Someone could simply ask her,” Vorik says.

“Gee why hadn’t any of the rest of us thought of that?” Murphy says rolling his eyes. 

“Making small talk with a Borg is kind of challenging,” Carey says.

“She does play velocity with the captain every Tuesday night,” Delaney says.

“How do you know so much about her schedule?” Nozawa says. Delaney lowers her voice confidentially, says,

“When she first came aboard I was way skeptical and kind of… started tracking her movements. And then it just kinda became a habit. Just once in a while throughout the day, I’ll ask the computer where she is, see what she’s up to.”

“Kinda creepy, Jen,” Wildman says.

“I know. But I have a rather addictive personality. If it makes you feel any better, I do it to Megan and to Harry Kim. And this is horrible, but I had the biggest crush on Seska and did it to her all the time.” B’Elanna’s stomachs clench. She’d thought she’d loved Seska at one point, too. But Chakotay had ultimately taken one for the team on the falling-for-her-bullshit front. “When I found out she had betrayed us all, I felt so dirty. Like if I hadn’t been some love struck fool and had been thinking with my brain I probably could’ve used all my info on her to put those pieces together sooner and we wouldn’t have had to go through all that nonsense with the Kazon, not to mention those cave people.”

“I knew you before Voyager so the light stalking part of your personality comes as no surprise to me. But Seska?” Carey says. “If I had to pick a Maquis—”

“Do not finish that sentence,” B’Elanna says. Everyone laughs, but he continues,

“I was gonna say Commander Chakotay.”

“I was under the impression you were heterosexual,” Vorik says.

“I am. But did you guys hear that when he and the Captain were quarantined on that planet he built her a bathtub? That’s romantic as shit! I wish somebody would build me a bathtub!” Everyone laughs again, but B’Elanna’s is forced for the sociability of it. Her stomachs clench again. She’d thought she was over her crush on Janeway since they hadn’t been working so closely so often lately, but there’s the jealousy rearing up. She and Chakotay really know how to pick ‘em.

“Ghay'cha',” B’Elanna says. “We haven’t even ordered yet and we’re already talking hypothetical crushes.” A holographic waiter, whose audio processors are programmed to respond to such phrases, walks over, and that problem is soon remedied. B’Elanna’s thinking about a transition topic—maybe to get them back on trying to socialize with Seven or even hooking Nicoletti up with Wildman. This evening is not going Nicoletti’s way at all, and B’Elanna can see she’s getting discouraged rather than frustrated. Both are bad looks on her, but discouraged is at least better for group dynamics. And she herself could use a nice distraction from the feelings the last topic had stirred up. But Nozawa is already talking, a gleam in his eye:

“I think we’ve just stumbled on a fantastic drinking game.” Delaney claps in delight, and Murphy slaps him on the shoulder, also in delight. Vorik crooks an eyebrow. The rest laugh, except for B’Elanna, who says,

“Well that’s just not fair. I’m the only ex-Maquis at this table. I’m just supposed to sit here and listen to all of you sexually objectify my old pals?”

“You can play, too!” Sharr says. “If you had to pick a Starfleet!” Vorik’s eyebrow raises again, and he says,

“As that is a very large pool of individuals compared to the number of Maquis on board, I don’t believe it would add much interest to the game. However, it is a considerate thought.”

“Well, we could do something else to restrict your choices,” Nicoletti says. Ah, there’s fun Nicoletti. Making B’Elanna uncomfortable has perked her right up.

“Or we could just skip it and find something to do that we all like,” Wildman says.

Nicoletti has her mouth open, and B’Elanna just knows that she’s going to say skinny dipping. She doesn’t know how much tequila it takes to get Wildman’s clothes to fall off, but she’s sure Wildman’s not even halfway there, so she slips in before Nicoletti can shoot her shot too early in the night:

“No it’s fine. I’m kind of intrigued now. Let’s do it.”

“There are 35 Maquis crew members, so to restrict your choices similarly, might I suggest Gamma shift?” Vorik says.

“But which Gamma shift? It rotates,” Murphy says.

“I am aware of that. I meant the Gamma shift for tonight. It will be easy to acquire that list of individuals, and it is a random sample unlikely to contain many Maquis,” Vorik says.

B’Elanna throws up her hands in surrender:

“Sure. Sounds great.”

The drinks and food come, and Jenny is vibrating with excitement to begin and starts up immediately:

“Ok, rules for If I Had to Pick a Maquis… Let’s do it in brackets! Like, round one: bridge crew! Round two: security! Round three: engineering!” Nozawa is shaking his head, says,

“This is getting complicated.”

“And what would be the point of a security round? Who’s not going to pick Ayala?” Sharr says.

They all laugh, even B’Elanna.

There’s a hand on B’Elanna’s shoulder. And at first she thinks it’s Wildman, but Wildman’s got both hands around her half a coconut drink, so she turns, and she’s not sure if she’s relieved. It’s Janeway, which means that this asinine game is dead in the water. But it also means that Janeway’s probably going to squeeze in beside her and touch her forearm a lot as they all chit chat. And she’s going to get all hot and bothered about it and become increasingly silent because liquor always makes her want to reveal secrets and she knows that about herself so she’ll get quiet and weird to stop herself from saying anything embarrassing and everyone will catch her bad vibe and it won’t be any fun for anybody. Janeway says,

“I didn’t know anyone even came here anymore. It’s nice to see so many of you together having a good time.”

“What brings you here, Captain?” Nozawa says.

“Wanted to get a bite to eat before Gamma shift and saw that a public access program was running. Thought it might be more appetizing than Neelix’s leftovers.” That settles it. B’Elanna is definitely relieved. There’s no way she could’ve not blushed as the computer read off the names of Gamma shift and it got to Janeway without warning.

“Feel free to join us,” Wildman said.

“Thank you. Don’t mind if I do,” Janeway says. And just as B’Elanna had suspected, she squeezes in between Wildman and her, their thighs lightly touching under the table. B’Elanna sighs and takes a drink, resigns herself.

“We were just discussing—” Delaney starts, and B’Elanna hadn’t known that she’d be that gauche, but Wildman apparently had because she cuts her off:

“Trying to encourage Seven to socialize more.” Delaney frowns, but everyone else seems relieved.

“Oh. That’s very thoughtful of you. What have you come up with so far?” Janeway says.

The holographic waiter is back for refills and to take Janeway’s order.

“Honestly, not much, Captain. We kinda got sidetracked for a while,” Carey says. Janeway laughs and places her hand on B’Elanna’s forearm, says,

“Well. It’s the thought that counts.”

“Exactly how good is Seven at velocity? Because I’ve been wanting to diversify my exercise regime, but I’m very bad at velocity. If she’s also a novice...” Wildman says. Janeway looks at her, very obviously contemplating, says,

“She’s very athletic, but her instincts for it aren’t great. It’s been my experience that you have very good instincts. It might be a good fit.” Nicoletti’s frowning so hard it’s almost comical. Janeway’s hand is still on her forearm, and somehow it just pops out of her out of nowhere:

“Doubles velocity is a good way to hone your skills. If you’ve got a good partner who’s willing to teach you. What do you think, Captain? You and Seven working on instincts. Me and Sam working on physicality.”

“That could be a really good idea. You’re the only person I’ve played on this ship who’s beaten me,” Janeway says with a smirk and a squeeze of forearm. B’Elanna’s stomachs clench again, but it’s definitely not jealousy.

“I beat you that one time!” Nozawa says.

“Doesn’t count. There was a Red Alert, and the computer logged it as a forfeiture. You were 12 points behind,” Janeway says, laughing.

“Technically, though, Captain—” Vorik starts.

“Twelve points behind, Vorik,” Sharr says, pushing at his shoulder and laughing. Janeway smiles and tucks into her plate. The hand is gone from B’Elanna’s forearm, and B’Elanna watches Janeway’s profile as she chews and an image of her in that tuxedo flashes in her mind. She says, again without really thinking about it or wanting to,

“Say. There’s this public access holoprogram that I like, but I’ve only ever seen the Captain and a couple of guys from ops in there. Anybody know anything about it? It’s called Coeur de Lion and it’s World War Two…” Janeway almost chokes as she swallows a bite of weird Talaxian fruit.

“Oh!” Delaney says. “Yeah! I’ve been there a couple times. I like playing the cigarette girl. She’s got a side quest in the hidden holonovel where she has to barter on the blackmarket. Super fun.”

“I accidentally went once. I had meant to access a different World War II one where you’re one of those decoder people. But it was fun. I like that hologram of the Captain. Sassy,” Murphy says.

“There’s no hologram of me,” Janeway says. Her face is a little red. And B’Elanna is feeling both first-hand and second-hand embarrassment as she realizes what that statement had meant.

“Yeah. She’s in a white tux, and if you play through to when the Nazis find out it’s a cover for the French Resistance, she starts a bar fight. Permission to speak freely.” But she doesn’t even pause. “It’s sexy,” Delaney says. And B’Elanna can’t reach far enough under the table to have kicked her and stopped her.

“Well, Gamma shift starts soon. Thanks for having me at your table,” Janeway says. Third time now, B’Elanna feels words bubbling up:

“I’m beat. I think I’ll turn in early. Walk you to the turbolift?” Carey and Nicoletti exchange a glance, and B’Elanna sees it and shoots a quick glare at each of them. Janeway says,

“Sure. Thanks, Lieutenant.”

Once in the corridor, Janeway lowers her voice, and again, there’s her hand, now on B’Elanna’s tricep.

“I had meant to set that to private, but when I realized people were accessing it, I just left it.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me. Well, not about that part of it anyway.”

Janeway squeezes her tricep and throws her head back in a laugh. She could watch Janeway’s throat like that for hours. And that’s what she’s thinking about as she blurts out:

“I like the tux, but it’d be better if you ditched the tie and wore the collar open. Your neck is one of your best assets, and if you're flirting with everybody to grow your business, you ought to show off your best assets.” Janeway looks at her with her head cocked, and B’Elanna realizes what she’s said, is about to back pedal. But. Janeway’s smiling and saying,

“I’ll take that under advisement.” B’Elanna thinks there might be some flirtation there. But Janeway flirts with everybody, so. She squeezes her tricep again and says, “I was under the impression my legs were my best feature.” That was definitely flirting, though. And B’Elanna can’t help herself:

“Top five, but I wouldn’t say best.” She raises an eyebrow, says,

“Is that a hobby of yours, Lieutenant? Ranking people’s best attributes?”

“Which answer is going to get you to drop this line of questioning?” She laughs again, says,

“I’ll just take pity on you. This time. Are you free Tuesday for velocity? I’ll have to run the idea by Seven, of course. But I doubt she’ll be offended. I’m sure she’ll be excited to be on the winning team for once.”

“Don’t count your chickens, Captain. I don’t know Wildman that well, but one thing I do know about her is that she’s a perfectionist. So if she says she’s ‘very bad’ at something, it often just means she is somewhere between fair to slightly less than excellent at it.”

“Would you like to… say, put your money where your mouth is?” B’Elanna stops walking to think it through for a second, and Janeway’s hand drops from her arm, and she places it instead on her own hip, taps her foot as she waits for the response. 

B’Elanna’s never seen Wildman playing a sport. She’s seen her at the gym: she does the stair machine for cardio—takes it fast. She’s not sure of the pressure setting. And she’s got a respectable bench press for a human female. There’s a little niggling doubt, though, because she really is a bad dancer, as witnessed at many Neelix parties, and a lot of velocity is about gracefulness. But the way Janeway’s looking at her with avid, sparkling eyes and just a little bit of a smug smile. Well, that does it. She says,

“What have you got in mind?” Janeway traces her top teeth with the tip of her tongue, and B’Elanna thinks she’s shown too many of her cards and now Janeway’s doing that kind of subtly sexy stuff to goad her.

“I might be interested in what kind of public access holoprogram you might create. You’ve been to the Coeur de Lion. It’s only fair.”

“Ah a little I’ll show you mine if you show me yours?” Janeway blushes. B’Elanna is mortified for half a second until Janeway says,

“Exactly like that. I’d ask what you want if you win, but I have every confidence—” It’s B’Elanna now whose hand goes to Janeway’s upper arm.

“Ha! False bravado. I don’t think so, babe. When I win, you’re gonna have to wear that tux to the next Neelix party.” Janeway hums, says,

“When I win, babe, I might again take pity on you and wear the tux to your brand-new program. So be thinking about where you might want to see me in it.” And with that, she gets into the turbolift.

B’Elanna stands there reeling. Had they both just condescendingly and flirtatiously called each other babe? If Janeway really does show up to a holoprogram she creates in that tux, will she care about having lost the bet? Will she be able to go to her quarters and fall asleep? It’s not that late. She’ll just go back to the holodeck and inform Wildman of this development, with heavy areas of redaction as to the tone of the conversation.

Back in the holodeck, Nozawa, Murphy, Sharr, and Vorik have left. But the remaining have actually started playing If I Had to Pick a Maquis, and they’re doing shots about it, no doubt Nicoletti’s idea. The science team had been wearing their uniforms because they’d gone just off shift, and the engineering team had strategically waited for a while to arrive, to look like they’d planned it for reasons other than the reason they had. And Wildman’s down to her undershirt and slacks. She’s even removed her boots and socks.

It’s Nicoletti’s turn in the game, and the round is “miscellaneous” which apparently includes non-Maquis, non-Starfleet.

“Oh Kes, 100%. That husky voice.”

B’Elanna retakes her spot next to Wildman.

“I thought you were beat?” Carey says suspiciously.

“I had a second wind,” she says icily.

“You’re a few rounds behind, Torres,” Nicoletti says. Delaney pushes a shot glass in front of her. Against her better judgment, she goes ahead and swallows it. To her surprise, it’s baqghol, and it burns so good.

“I was saving that for you. Figured you’d be back all keyed up from flirting,” Delaney says.

“Excuse me?” B’Elanna says.

“You think I said what I said obliviously? Hell no. You two should’ve been banging years ago. Thought I’d give you a push when I had the chance.” Nicoletti and Carey are laughing, but Wildman is just looking at her with a warm smile.

“I’m glad my ineptness at velocity has given you an opportunity to spend more time with your crush without looking too obvious,” Wildman says.

“I—” B’Elanna starts, but Carey’s on her in a Doctor-ish voice:

“Please, Torres. This is a safe space.”

“They say having a broken nose gives a man’s face character. What might two broken noses give a man’s face?” B’Elanna says, but without any venom. He’s right. She doesn’t have much reason to deny it. Not here with these people, anyway. He just rolls his eyes, says,

“You came back here for a reason, I bet, though. Either she got you worked up good, or something happened you need to process, or both.”

“Give the gal a break. You people are merciless,” Wildman says.

“Merciless but not wrong,” B’Elanna says. “Something occurred in the hallway that I was powerless to stop.” Delaney’s on the edge of her seat, leaning forward. B’Elanna throws a napkin at her, says, “Nothing like what you’re thinking. We were talking and it somehow came to pass that, well, there’s been a wager.”

“You say all this as if some Delta Quadrant monster possessed you and made you do it,” Nicoletti says.

“I don’t have any evidence to the contrary,” B’Elanna says. Wildman’s got her brow furrowed and her eyes narrowed:

“What kind of wager? Does this involve the doubles velocity that you roped me into so that you could stare at the Captain’s tits in a sweaty tank top?” Wildman says.

“Now who’s merciless?” Carey says even as Delaney’s laughing, saying,

“As if you didn’t agree to it so you could stare at Seven’s tits in a sweaty tank top!” Carey laughs, says,

“Which reminds me. It’s your turn, Sam. If you had to pick a miscellaneous crew member…”

But Wildman blushes and takes the shot option, slams back a tequila. Nicoletti looks disappointed, but her face brightens as she says,

“But what about this wager?”

“I need more to drink for this conversation,” B’Elanna says. 

“Fine by me!” Delaney says, passes another couple shots over to B’Elanna, continues, “We can play a few more rounds while you get nice and toasted and ready to spill. Whose turn is it?”

“That’s me,” Carey says. “And I am also team Kes. Now you, Jen.”

She wags her head side to side, weighing her options, ultimately takes a shot instead. Nicoletti slams her palm on the table, triumphant. 

“I knew it! You’ve definitely tugged Neelix’s whiskers!”

Carey guffaws. 

“Next round!” Delaney says. “I think it’s about time for B’Elanna to have a turn. ‘If I had to pick a Gamma shift other than Captain Janeway because I’m definitely going to rail her after our velocity game regardless of who wins…’?” B’Elanna rolls her eyes, takes a shot preemptively, says,

“Computer, list personnel on duty currently.”

The computer starts its list, and B’Elanna considers at Ashmore. Grimaces at both Brooks and Hogan. Finally, after an eternity, the list is over, and no one has stood out to her, really.

“Well?” Nicoletti says.

“Eh. Tuvok,” B’Elanna says noncommittally.

“He wasn’t even on shift!” Delaney says.

“Wasn’t listening after a while,” B’Elanna says.

“Yeah neither was I,” Carey says. “That’s what we get for taking Vorik’s advice on entertainment.”

“I’m getting bored with this in general,” Wildman says. Nicoletti’s eyes light up. “I should probably pick up Naomi and get home, in fact.” And Nicoletti’s face falls just as quickly.

“Ok for real this time. I’m leaving. Walk you to the turbolift?” B’Elanna says. Wildman looks up from tying her boots, raises an eyebrow.

But she ultimately agrees to it. And in the corridor, B’Elanna’s a little sheepish:

“Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get you in the middle of anything. I just didn’t think before I spoke. Like a million times tonight.”

“It’s fine. Really. I shouldn’t have lost my temper about it. I’m not even mad about it. It’s kinda sweet, really. I just, in that moment, kind of felt like a pawn.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” Wildman pauses, bites her lip, says,

“B’Elanna? This stays between us. But I do kind of have a thing for Seven. So.”

“Well. I guess it’s a win-win, then.”

“I guess. But. This wager?”

“Oh. Right. Don’t feel any pressure. You’re not obligated to do anything to pay up if we lose, if that’s what you’re worried about. It’s strictly between me and the Captain.”

“That makes me feel better. And like. Objectively. I’m not that bad at velocity. I just don’t meet my own standards at it.” B’Elanna laughs:

“Just as I suspected.”


	2. Chapter 2

It’s almost lunch time, and B’Elanna’s writing up a warp status report and internally debating between chancing it with Neelix’s attempt at yardbird or replicating something. Another option is hopping down to Holodeck 1 and having a sandwich in the Coeur de Lion, try to get some inspiration for other locations she’d like to see that white tux. Although, if she’s being honest with herself, which she might as well, she’d mostly like to see it abandoned hastily on the floor of her quarters. She’s just about to let herself imagine just a little bit more down that line of thinking, nothing too lurid at work about her boss, but just then she hears her name being said, cold and efficient behind her. She turns.

“Seven. How can I help you on this lovely Thursday afternoon in beautiful, downtown Engineering?” Seven cocks her head. She’s thrown her off. Good. She’ll have to remember during the game next week to try more weird old-timey radio talk she’d learned in one of Tom’s holonovels.

“I do not understand the significance of the way you’ve chosen to describe engineering, and I am uninterested in an explanation at this time. I am here because I am angry with you and would like to schedule an appropriate time to discuss the matter.” Now B’Elanna’s thrown off. Both the subject of the Borg rant and the polite composure are a little much for her. She says,

“Well, I’m just going to lunch. You think we can appropriately discuss it in the mess hall?”

“I would prefer a private location.”

“Understood,” B’Elanna says, gesturing to her office. Seven nods, so they both walk in, and B’Elanna shuts the door, says, “Please, have a seat.”

“I prefer to stand.”

“Ok. What about something to eat? Like I said, I’m on lunch.”

“I do not require nutrients currently, but it will not offend me if you eat while I am not eating.”

“Great. I’ll uh. Just replicate something real quick and be right with you.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant. I appreciate your willingness to discuss this with me.”

“What is it, exactly, though? Are you mad that I’m horning in on your velocity game? Because we can cancel that if you prefer playing with just Janeway. I get wanting to spend time with her.” She’d accidentally let the last part slip out because she’d been so charmed by Seven’s good manners.

“No. It is about the velocity game, but it is not about being jealous over my time with the Captain.”

The replicator has finished her ham salad sandwich on brioche, which is what she would have had at the Coeur de Lion. She’s also replicated their chicory coffee. Maybe if she can get Seven out of here fast enough, she can savor these things and do a little day dreaming. It’s not as if she really believes she’ll lose, but it’s best to have a contingency plan, and maybe it’s time for her to give holoprogram design a go regardless. She leans on the edge of her desk, says,

“So?” She takes a bite and watches Seven’s impassive face. She’s got a muscle jumping in her jaw, and that’s her only tell.

“So. I am more than willing to play velocity with you. I believe I would find it a stimulating learning experience.”

“Thanks. I’m curious about your abilities, too. So? Where’s the anger come in?”

“There are two parts. The first is you have placed a wager on the game without my knowledge or consent, and that is unsportsmanlike.”

“I know. I understand your feelings about it. It was an accident.”

Seven quirks her brow,

“And how does one place an accidental bet?” B’Elanna huffs and wants to tell her it’s Janeway’s fault for being so hot when she gets competitive, but she says,

“It flowed organically in the conversation and just happened before I could think better of it.” She can feel Seven studying her. 

“Acceptable. I know that conversations with Captain Janeway can be difficult to navigate in the way one would prefer them to go. She can be rather persuasive.”

“That’s one way to put it,” B’Elanna says. “But what’s the second part?” 

“The second part is that I believe your unsportsmanlike behavior is more insidious than the Captain’s because your choice of partner for the competition is a deliberate attempt to inhibit my peak functional efficiency.” B’Elanna laughs.

“You can’t be serious. You think I picked Samantha Wildman because she’s gonna cheat? Or what? Elbow you in the eye? Set the variance on her phaser to disrupt your Borg implants? Have you met Samantha Wildman? She’s the nicest person on this ship! What’d she ever do to you?”

The muscle in her jaw jumps again, and she takes a slow breath through her nose, says,

“I believe you have somehow discovered my romantic feelings for Ensign Wildman and have selected her as your partner for the following reasons: seeing her enjoying camaraderie with another woman will incite my jealousy and decrease my morale; being in close proximity to her and taking pleasure in her company knowing that she is married to a man and will likely never reciprocate my feelings both because I am likely unworthy of her affections specifically and because she is likely not attracted to women in general will further decrease my morale; seeing her in a state of undress engaging in vigorous physical activity will distract me; my tender feelings for her will cause me not to want her to lose because I know she does not like losing and I do not desire to harm her in any way.”

“Holy shit, Seven. You’ve got it so bad you’ve come up with a whole conspiracy theory.”

“Are you taunting me, Lieutenant Torres?”

“No. Sorry. Geez. I’m sorry. It’s nothing like that.”

“What is it like, then?” The muscle’s still jumping, and B’Elanna has got to get this ameliorated before something bad happens. She kicks herself for being so impulsive. Should’ve just let Wildman ask Seven for a one-on-one game and they could’ve figured their shit out on their own without this murderous look on Seven’s face ever having to darken her doorway.

“I was hanging out on the holodeck the other day with a bunch of people, and she said we should all try to invite you to more stuff because she wants you to have friends and be happy, and she mentioned she might want to ask you to play velocity but she was worried she wasn’t good enough to challenge you and I suggested doubles as a way to help her improve. I swear, the bet wasn’t even a twinkle in anybody’s eye yet. And if it makes you feel better, she was mad at me about that part of it at first, too.”

The muscle has stopped. She seems slightly less rigid. She says,

“Ensign Wildman expressed concern for my well-being?”

“Yes of course she did. I meant it when I said she’s the nicest person on this ship. And besides. She likes you.” She’s not sure how far she should go with this. She wants Seven to know that she’s not out to get her, and she wants to assure Seven that people like her, especially Wildman, yet she wants to keep Wildman’s confidence—maybe she’s got a reason she wants to keep her feelings to herself right now—but actually they could be really good together. Especially if Seven’s going to lay out her grievances like this all the time. Wildman’s upfront and kind about this sort of thing, typically, too. That’s groundwork for a good relationship. Seven’s voice breaks into her thoughts:

“Thank you for discussing this with me. I am still concerned about how my performance will be affected by Ensign Wildman’s presence, but I believe your explanation of the events to be truthful, and we may proceed with the game on Tuesday.”

“Ok. Sounds good. Should we shake on it?”

“Yes. In the interest of good sportsmanship.” They do, and Seven exits. B’Elanna takes a sip of the chicory coffee, but it’s gone luke warm, and as she’s got her back to the door to reheat it, she hears a tap on her door. She motions over her shoulder for whoever to come in, hears,

“Well shucks.” It’s Janeway. She turns to find her leaning against her desk looking down at the ham salad sandwich. “I had thought maybe I’d be able to get down here before Seven, but I saw her on her way out. And I’d thought maybe I’d be able to get down here before you’d had lunch and we could brave the yardbird together as I briefed you about what was coming your way.”

“You’re two for two, Captain. That’s a good sign for me. Maybe your luck’s running out and it’ll translate to a big win for Torres-Wildman on Tuesday.” B’Elanna had expected some flirty banter, but Janeway’s face looks puzzled. She says,

“Oh? Seven’s allowing the game?”

“Yeah. We talked it out.”

“Hmm. That’s progress, at least. But how’d you do it? She was very mad. Boiling. Wouldn’t tell me the details, just stormed out saying, ‘I am going to meditate, and then I am going to let Lieutenant Torres know exactly what I think about her underhandedness,’” Janeway says, the last in a passable approximation of Seven’s voice.

“Meditate?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe she and Tuvok have cooked up some training program together.”

“That would make sense.”

“But what was the problem? She told me it wasn’t doubles and it wasn’t you. I thought she and Samantha got along. I mean, who doesn’t like Samantha? She could hand you a cup of poisoned coffee and you’d thank her.”

“If she didn’t tell you, I don’t think it’s my place—” Her eyes go wide, and she leans back on her elbows and laughs. B’Elanna’s watching that throat again. Janeway says,

“My my my. She’s got the hots for Ensign Wildman. And I bet that Borg processor of hers was whirring into high gear coming up with how you knew all about her secret yearnings and how you were using them against her.” B’Elanna laughs in spite of herself, says,

“I can neither confirm nor deny.” Janeway laughs again.

“You wanna make a side wager, then?” B’Elanna groans.

“This is a slippery slope to unethical. Betting on people’s love lives.”

“Ok, pot. ‘If I had to pick a Maquis…’” She also does a serviceable Jenny Delaney.

“I was suspicious you had heard some of that,” B’Elanna says, only half-groaning because she’s half wondering what other crew members Janeway can imitate.

“I hear a lot of things. In fact, a little birdie told me just this morning that maybe this Of Nine-Wildman affair isn’t so one-sided as Seven might suppose it is.” 

“Oh no. Wildman’s gonna think that little birdie was me! It was not! I haven’t told a soul!”

“Well, not until just now.” She’s still on her elbows, smirking now. B’Elanna slaps her arm lightly.

“You played me, Janeway.”

“I knew you knew more than you were letting on. You’ve got a lot of tells, Torres.” B’Elanna knows that’s true, but she also wonders just how many tells she’s picked up on about how she feels about her. She wonders if that’s how she always plays her so easily. If she uses her obvious attraction against her. Now she’s got her own conspiracy theory. She mentally kicks herself again, says,

“Well. If you’re gonna try that yardbird, I know you’ve only got so long for lunch.” Janeway sits up, huffs,

“Are you kicking me out?”

“No. But I’m also not splitting this sandwich with you, and you need to be well-nourished if you think you’re gonna beat me with the kind of handicap you’re gonna have Tuesday.” She laughs.

“The way it seems to me is that you’ve got a very similar handicap on your hands. And you’ve never seen Seven in a tank top. Quite impressive if you’re into blondes.”

“Am I to take it from that statement that you’re not?” B’Elanna almost bites her tongue about having said it, but Janeway says,

“Brunettes are more my type.” Of course B’Elanna can’t hear if there’s a feminine e on that, but that’s the way she transcribes it in her head, places a risky bet:

“It’s too bad you’ve seen me in a tank top plenty. You’re probably immune by now.” Janeway raises an eyebrow, says,

“Well, we’re all playing the odds, aren’t we?” She brushes her fingers over B’Elanna’s forearm as she stands and exits.

The chicory coffee’s gone cold again. She replicates a raktajino instead.


	3. Chapter 3

“I’ve got a situation, and you’re not the biggest jerk I know, and you give decent advice, and while I know you’re definitely going to rib me about it, at least we don’t work in the same department, so it won’t be constant.”

“Ok wow,” Tom says. “That is exactly what a guy wants to hear. Way to butter me up.” 

They’re on Holodeck 2, and he’s driving a 1930s pick-up truck modeled after the one they’d found floating in space a couple years back, and they’re on their way to a bonfire down at the old reservoir—it’s some kind of rural small town 20th-century America thing, a private program that really ought to be public. She’d fork over a week’s worth of replicator rations to watch Tuvok or Vorik or Seven interact with the gas station cashier who’s hick to the max and always wants to talk about how much he hates communists. She’d give another week’s replicator rations to watch Janeway watch Tuvok or Vorik or Seven interact with the gas station cashier—how she’d let the chips fall where they may and laugh and then extricate them with some homespun Indiana-traditional-upbringing phrase and continue laughing as they piled into the truck, her hair wild. She’d probably be in a shirt dress, cinched tight at the waist. She shakes herself out of it, thinks about the matter at hand:

She can’t remember who all will be here, but Harry surely and maybe the Delaney sisters. She doesn’t much care. She’d agreed to come tonight if Tom would meet her early to talk, and he had enthusiastically said yes because he had said any excuse is a good excuse to drive around with the wind in your hair. He’d told her he’s going to program in a convertible next—maybe something newer and faster, though. B’Elanna had allowed this ramble for as long as she had thought prudent and then had given her preamble, which he had been half-jokingly offended by. She says,

“Sorry. I know. You’re not the biggest jerk I know because I am. Anyway, this situation.”

And she gives him a condensed version that nevertheless doesn’t pull any punches.

“Ok wow,” he says again. “I’m processing. It’s a lot of lesbo drama for a dude to take in.”

“I’m not so sure any of us are strictly lesbians, in point of fact.”

“My bad,” he says. But then he snaps his fingers. “I got it. Simplest solution in the book. You and the Captain drop out—you’re sick, there’s an engineering emergency, whatever. And they play each other and fall in love. You and the Captain reschedule and play each other so you can get your bet taken care of and fall in love, and then you can all mutually decide whether doubles is necessary or desirable.”

“But what if they don’t want to go through with a one-on-one game because they’re both uncomfortable being alone in tank tops together and reschedule with us and we’re back to square one? And also Janeway is not going to fall in love with me.” He shrugs, 

“I thought you were a gambling woman.”

“It’s different when it involves other people.”

He hums, and she leans her elbow on the open window, looks out at the prairie landscape. He snaps his fingers again, says,

“I got it. Invite them all out to a holoprogram this weekend and talk it out.”

“But that would necessitate my coming clean to Wildman about having told Janeway and to Seven about not having told her about Wildman and Janeway will be there touching my forearm a lot and being diplomatic and charming and I’ll be the asshole.”

“K. Let me think some more.” Not three seconds later another finger snap. “You’ll just have to get Sam and Seven together before the game so they get some of it out of their system and won’t be second guessing themselves the whole time. And you and the Captain can be as vicious as you want and then bang it out afterward.”

“QI'yaH, Paris. The first part is maybe possible, but the banging it out is not going to happen! Captain Janeway does not want to fuck me!”

“Say that a little louder? They only heard you in two counties.” She rolls her eyes, and he says, “And how do you know? I’ve seen the way she looks at you.”

“She’s the biggest flirt I’ve ever met. She looks at Neelix like that.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Whatever. So what’s the plan for Wildman and Seven?”

“Get ‘em stuck in a turbolift. Duh,” Tom says.

“And what’s that gonna do? Seven will fix it in 45 seconds.”

“No. Disable it in a way that can’t be fixed that easily. And take off climate control. They’ll have to strip to keep cool. And they’ll have to talk to each other and encourage each other and probably have to make out eventually.”

“And Seven thought I was underhanded before. I don’t like it. Give me another idea.”

“I’m not a machine, B’Elanna. This is an art. Maybe after the bonfire I’ll be recharged and be able to give you something better.”

“Well, thanks anyway, I guess. I feel better having talked about it.”

“Don’t thank me too much. I am definitely going to rib you at any and every opportunity.”

They’ve arrived at the gravel patch at the dam that serves as a parking lot, and they piece their way down the hill to the beach. It’s Harry and Megan Delaney and Mike Ayala and Renlay Sharr and Susan Nicoletti sitting around the bonfire with longnecks in their hands.

“Who are you trying to get drunk enough to skinny dip with tonight, Nicoletti?” B’Elanna says.

“Let she who is without an unrequited love cast the first stone,” Nicoletti says. Sharr laughs and says,

“Yeah! I heard I missed a lot of bombshells just because I’m a lightweight! Pathetic of me!”

“Are we playing that If I Had to Pick a Maquis game Jen was telling me about, or what?” Megan says, already bored with old gossip.

“The what?” Tom says, waggling his eyebrows at B’Elanna and then reaches into the cooler to get them both beers.

“As I understand it, it’s not even that fun,” Ayala says. “Let’s do good, old-fashioned Wed, Bed, or Get Dead.”

“I don’t like either, I don’t think,” Harry says. “What about beach volleyball?”

“Now how am I supposed to get you drunk enough to skinny dip if you’re sweating out all the booze?” Nicoletti says.

They all laugh. Harry blushes and runs a hand through his hair, says,

“That’s a good point. Wed, Bed, or Get Dead it is, then.” Nicoletti’s mouth is hanging open. She says,

“Shoot, never thought you’d be that easy. Somebody scoot the cooler closer to Harry.”

“I think I’m out,” B’Elanna says.

“Every party has a pooper,” Tom says. She shoulder checks him affectionately and exits. 

And once in the corridor, she has a Jenny Delaney light bulb:

“Computer, what is the location of Ensign Wildman?”

“Ensign Samantha Wildman is on duty in the aeroponics bay.”

Perfect. That’s a one-person gig.

She takes the Jefferies tubes there to give herself a little time to think about how she’s going to begin. She doesn’t want to lead with Seven’s confession because, although Seven hadn’t asked her for discretion, she also hadn’t told the Captain. She doesn’t want to lead with, “So give me the low-down about why you want to keep your feelings a secret.” That’s rude. But said less rudely it might be better. 

She pauses at the panel’s lock compartment because she hears voices. Maybe aeroponics has, unbeknownst to her, expanded so that it’s no longer a one-person job. Or maybe Neelix is checking on stuff. Or. Wildman has a lot of friends and of course Naomi who would keep her company on a long, lonely shift. She’s about to disengage the lock, but she figures out who it is and decides to eavesdrop instead. Maybe if it goes well, she can just hike right back through the Jefferies tubes to her quarters and read some Klingon romance or something.

“No, Lieutenant Torres did not tell me anything other than that you perceive yourself to be unskilled at velocity and that you care about my well-being,” Seven’s voice says.

“Oh. Well. That’s accurate,” Wildman says

“There is another matter I would like to discuss, and if you become uncomfortable at any time, I will leave if you wish.”

“Ok…?”

“I am concerned about my own performance on Tuesday because I suspect I will be distracted by your presence, as I am extremely attracted to you. I think I would be more confident in my abilities if I knew whether my feelings are reciprocated. I will not be offended if they are not, but knowing either way would be preferable to being in the dark, as it were. I know that on many occasions we have had edifying conversations and have touched each other in socially acceptably intimate ways and have held extended eye contact, all indicators of attraction but ambiguously so. So, if you don’t mind the intrusive question, is it possible that you are also attracted to me?” Wildman laughs, and B’Elanna can tell it’s a nervous laugh by the tinniness of it.

“Um yes, actually. I like you a lot. But I’ve been torn about whether I want to pursue anything with you.”

“Because I am Borg.”

“No. Because I’m married. Sure, my husband probably thinks I’m dead and has done his grieving and has moved on with his life. But what would I tell Naomi? ‘Yeah, Mommy loves Daddy very much, but now Mommy’s banging this hot Borg because she’s very lonely and has a lot of existential dread about living on a spaceship stranded 60,000 light years from home and Daddy probably thinks Mommy’s dead and this hot Borg is super hot and nice and fun and caring and makes Mommy feel like a person again.’?”

“If you would like my opinion, I think it sounds like a good start; however, I might redact the details about existential dread and my hotness. And also the sexual activity.” B’Elanna can hear the smile in her voice. Wildman says,

“That’s very useful constructive criticism, thank you.”

“I am in no hurry, and I doubt my attraction to you will fade soon, especially after you have been so candid with me. Please contact me when or if you come to a conclusion.”

“Wait. You’re off duty, and this is a one-person job. It’s not against regulation for me to have someone down here to talk to. Why don’t you stay and keep me company?” 

“Thank you. I would enjoy that.”

B’Elanna has accidentally disengaged the lock as she’s been leaning on the door to hear better and tumbles out, catching her foot on the edge and splaying onto the floor on her hands and knees.

Wildman yelps, and Seven draws a phaser. B’Elanna sits up on her knees, puts her hands up, says,

“Don’t shoot. It’s just me.”

“Is that the best reason you have for not shooting you?” Seven says, still with a smile in her voice. Wildman laughs.

“The best reason is that I’m the chief engineer. Any other reason is debatable.” Seven holsters the phaser, and B’Elanna kicks the panel shut, stands, says,

“Full disclosure, I came here to talk to Wildman about what you two were just talking about, and I definitely was eavesdropping, and congratulations, and I’ll be on my way.”

“Doubtless to inform the Captain,” Seven says. B’Elanna looks at Wildman, who doesn’t seem bothered by the idea of that, so she says,

“It’d be unsportsmanlike not to keep her apprised of the news as it unfolds.”

“You two, I swear,” Wildman says. “Jenny was right. You should’ve been banging years ago.”

“I have not known either of you for years, but my current assessment and my extrapolation through my knowledge of ship logs and reports support this conclusion. But, I am confused as to why ‘bang’ is the preferred euphemism for intercourse on this vessel.” Wildman fields that one as B’Elanna contemplates these two more yeses added to the growing pile of votes for mutual sexual tension between her and Janeway. Wildman says,

“I think it’s because it’s silly and pretty inoffensive and not as serious as ‘make love’ and not quite as juvenile as ‘do it’ and not as blunt and embarrassing as ‘have sex.’”

“An interesting theory,” Seven says. And B’Elanna is halfway to the door, saying, 

“I’ll just go ahead and leave you two to compiling your list of euphemisms for intercourse, then.”

She takes the turbolift this time. It’s best to talk to Janeway with no preconceived idea of what she might say because she knows either of them hardly stick to the script. But then as it’s asking her what deck she wants, she remembers she hasn’t located Janeway yet.

“Captain Kathryn Janeway is in her quarters.”

Well. Not ideal. Ready room is best. She’s at her most professional there. Still flirtatious and touchy-feely but not quite so bold as in a corridor or B’Elanna’s office. She’s been to her quarters a few times, but it had been when she was upset, and Janeway had been in comfort-and-reassure mode rather than seeing-how-far-she-can-take-an-innuendo mode. So this is a crapshoot. And she’s not sure what the difference between snake eyes and lucky number seven might be. She’s spiraling with scenarios: she gets there; Janeway doesn’t want her in her private space just to bullshit about their stupid velocity bet, is terse with her until she leaves. Or she gets there; Janeway flirts with her, touches her a lot; B’Elanna gets riled up and makes a move; Janeway is offended, lets her down easy; “I’ve enjoyed mentoring you, but that’s all it’s been.” Or she gets there—

“State the deck of destination.”

Oh right, that. Maybe it’s best not to go to her quarters at all. Just go home and sleep. As if that would come easy.

The door to Janeway’s quarters opens, and Kahless, she’s in her pink satin nightgown drinking a glass of red wine.

“Oh hi,” she says as she motions for B’Elanna to come inside, and then she’s reclining invitingly on the divan and patting at the cushion next to her. “Come round to forfeit? Up the bet? Psych me out a bit?” 

Janeway says the last a little more slowly as she rakes her eyes up and down B’Elanna’s body, and B’Elanna feels ultra stupid. She’d dressed for the after-shift holoprogram again, thinking she’d stick around for the bonfire. And it’s 1950s bad girl clothes—pedal pusher jeans and red pumps and a boatneck blouse and a leather jacket and red lipstick. She must look like a total dummy. But then she looks at Janeway’s eyes looking at her. And those eyes don’t say anything about her being a dummy. Those eyes are looking-at-well-marbled-prime-rib eyes. B’Elanna feels her face heat and her heart hammer. She takes off the leather jacket and drapes it over the arm of the couch, sits on the cushion that Janeway had indicated.

“Not gonna even offer me a drink before you start up with me?” B’Elanna says.

“Where are my manners? Let me guess. An ice cold beer for the lady?”

“Looks like the lady’s already drinking red wine.” Janeway gestures a flirtatious dismissal, says,

“Your eyes deceive you. I’m no lady, and this is actually bloodwine. Thought if I’m going to go head to head with a Klingon, I ought to get into the right headspace.”

“Hmm. Not a bad idea. And how might I get into your… headspace? Single malt scotch?”

“Kentucky straight bourbon whiskey. It’s much sweeter and more full-bodied.” B’Elanna stifles a shiver at the way she’d said “full-bodied.” She says,

“Well, set ‘em up, Joe.” Janeway laughs and places her glass on the coffee table, glides over to the replicator, tosses over her shoulder,

“You’ve been paying attention at the Coeur de Lion. I like that in a woman.”

“And what else do you like in a woman?”

Janeway’s handing her the double-old-fashioned glass with three fingers of whiskey and three ice cubes, says,

“Depends on the woman.” They lock eyes for a second, and then Janeway takes up her own glass and reclines languidly.

B’Elanna figures she ought to update her on the “Of Nine-Wildman” affair while she’s still able, before she gets so lost in good bourbon and good flirtation that she just pounces on her and bites her cheek and takes her quick and hard right there on the settee. That thought had flown in from precisely nowhere and everywhere at once, and she shakes herself out of the outrageous lust and presumption of it, says,

“Speaking of women liking things in other women,” and Janeway has a brow raised and her glass hovering at her red red mouth. “It seems we may again be on a level playing field. Our handicaps have come to an agreement.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Janeway says, clinking her glass to B’Elanna’s. They both drink, and then Janeway again sets her glass on the coffee table, says, “Does that mean you are indeed here to up the bet?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“Maybe we ought to add an ante, then?”

B’Elanna sets her glass on the coffee table, drapes her arm over the back of the couch, leans in a bit.

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“Well you know what an ante is. It’s the base bet that everyone puts in. A little good-faith promise. And when someone wins the pot…” Janeway runs her finger along B’Elanna’s bare forearm on the back of the couch.

“I think you’re stretching the metaphor to prod me into doing what you want.”

“And if that were true, what do you think it might be that I would want?”

And there it is. It clicks finally for B’Elanna: she’s got to be the one to say it, to do something about it. If Janeway makes the real first move, she’s a bad captain, abusing her power, leveraging her station for personal gain. None of that is true, of course, but even the Captain’s got her worries and insecurities. That’s why she’s always flirting and then backing off and flirting again. Janeway is compelled by her very nature to interact with people, wants to get close to people and then gets scared that it’s too close to competently be their leader. This is what B’Elanna’s tentatively piecing together anyway. So she’s got to do something that says she gets it and that she’s here of her own free will, no coercion whatsoever. She says,

“I think it’s about time you asked me what I want instead.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because we want the same thing, but if I ask for it, you can give it to me, and if you ask for it, you won’t allow yourself to let me give it to you.”

Janeway sits up straight, runs a hand through her hair, sighs.

“This was a bad idea.” She pauses, looks at her with such dark, haunted eyes. “For the record, you’re right. And that’s why I won’t be asking, either. B’Elanna, I like you. I like your company. And I respect you. And I appreciate your empathy.” She pauses again and squeezes her hand. “And you should go.” She stands to walk B’Elanna to the door. B’Elanna slings her leather jacket over her arm and considers doing something very stupid. At the door, B’Elanna says,

“One more thing, though.”

“Yes?”

B’Elanna grabs her around the waist and kisses her, feels Janeway’s hands at her shoulders at first and then one around her neck and the other cupping her face, and Janeway’s tongue is in her mouth, and she’d been bluffing. That’s malbec she tastes, not bloodwine. She drops the leather jacket and snakes that arm around her, as well. She’s pressing against Janeway’s back, pulling her closer with both arms, body to body, heaving chest to heaving chest. And then she’s pushing her against the wall, hands going to hips instead, fingers clawing into soft satin and soft flesh beneath. They’re kissing and kissing, and Janeway’s hips start to move, and B’Elanna’s thigh is between hers, and her hips start to move, too, and Janeway’s pulling back, but it’s just so that she can kiss her jaw and then her neck and then her collarbones, and her collarbones are very ticklish, but Janeway’s mouth is so hot and firm and insistent that the tickle of it is inflaming. She doesn’t want to giggle and flinch out of the way: she wants to rip Janeway’s nightgown off and put her fingers inside her. And that’s when she knows it’s time to go. If she doesn’t stop this now, they’re going to fuck right here against the wall, both of them fully knowing that Janeway does not want to do that because of her rigid Starfleet ethics. But she has to indulge herself—and Janeway, too—just a little bit more. She takes a fistful of hair—she knows how to do it gently for human girls and their delicate cervical spines—and pulls just so that their mouths are on each other again, kissing another few slow, deep kisses, tongue and teeth and fire, and then she lets go and steps back and says,

“I’m not sorry I did that, and I understand if you never want to have anything to do with me after this. Chakotay’s a good errand boy. He can give me any orders you need relayed to me.” Janeway rests her head back against the wall and laughs a choking, panting laugh, says,

“That’s another thing I like in a woman. The sheer audacity.”

“That’s something we’ve got in common, babe.” And B’Elanna leaves before she does anything else out of sheer audacity.


	4. Chapter 4

B’Elanna had had trouble falling asleep and also staying asleep. At least she hadn’t been dreaming about it. She’s sure that will come later—anxiety dreams about what might have been. It takes a while for those to kick in sometimes, for her brain to trick her into believing she’s over something, and then there it is again taunting her in a dream, reopening a cut and squeezing lemon juice in it, daring her to think about it consciously again and ache about it consciously again. She has a lot of experience with those types of dreams—her childhood, her truncated Academy experience, the Maquis, the Delta Quadrant. Plenty of fuel there for her subconscious to start as many trash fires as it is wont.

She’d finally just gotten up two hours before her duty shift and had done an hour-long bat’leth workout on the holodeck, and now she’s pacing her quarters trying to choke down toast and coffee before having to endure an away mission with Tuvok and Neelix.

She’s desperate to talk to somebody about this, but there’s no one she can trust with something of this magnitude. Sure, half the crew knowing she wants to bend Janeway over her ready room desk is one thing, and sure half of that half suspecting Janeway also wants that is another thing. But both are basically harmless speculation in the realm of fantasy, fun to talk and joke about because it’s all hypothetical. But to have any one of those people knowing how close to that having come to fruition (details of the location and circumstances of the act of intercourse notwithstanding) is a whole other thing. Real people’s real lives and real emotions are a whole other thing entirely.

How’s she supposed to work out her feelings about having feelings for someone who reciprocates those feelings but doesn’t feel it’s the right thing to do to act on them when the person in question is everyone’s boss? Honestly, if this were about anyone but Janeway she’d be talking to Janeway because she would trust her to see the absurdity and humor of it as well as the consequences of it and the emotional truth of it; she would try her best to see both sides and help both sides come to an equitable compromise. B’Elanna laughs out loud in her empty quarters at the thought that if only that other Voyager from that spatial rift were still around she could have a Mediator Janeway at her disposal. She stops laughing when she remembers she’s the copy of B’Elanna Torres rather than the real thing. Maybe that’s what’s wrong with her. Maybe there had been a typographical error when all the microscopic Delta Quadrant asshole-anomaly-of-the-month space monks had sat down at their tiny desks with their even tinier quills and had transcribed the original manuscript of her. She laughs again, but it’s that laugh one does so one doesn’t cry. She wishes she were the kind of person who could just stick to one avenue of thought instead of taking the long way meandering down all the dark alleys off the main drag.

She knows she will ultimately have to talk to Janeway. There will be no Mediator Janeway to offset the Biased Janeway Who Got Kissed Against Her Explicit Wishes, and it will be an ugly scene full of Starfleet decorum and denial, and she will take the reprimand and the sexual rejection and the revocation of any sort of actual friendship silently and stoically with her head high and her jaw set, and then she will cry in the sonic shower. She’s got it all planned out, so of course it will go much worse than that, but she’s set the bar so low that she’s sure she can handle most of the most probable deviations; for example, if Janeway decides to demote her because of her abominable behavior—she stops herself. She will not let herself go into that. She has prepared for the most likely scenario, and she will play it by ear when it comes time. She’ll just have to roll the hard six, and that’s what she’s used to anyway.

Still, she’d at least like to hear somebody else’s take on it. She might be too in her own head to have an accurate perspective. But that brings her back to the problem of being in a small community that thrives on rumor and hearsay: that’s why she can’t figure out whom she might be able to talk to without a lot of sensationalism about the kiss itself. With too many of her friends, whom she loves and respects and trusts with so many areas of her life, there’d be too much focus on the taboo and the titillating rather than why she feels so guilty about it and why she’s so angry at Janeway for dicking her around and why she’s so sad that Janeway won’t let herself live a full, regular life. It’s not that she thinks her friends are shallow; it’s that they haven’t seen Janeway’s wan, devastated face when she wants something she doesn’t think she deserves, and therefore they wouldn’t understand the tragic import of the situation.

She finally lets herself think it: her best bet is, in all actuality and to her chagrin, Chakotay. They’re old friends who regard each other with the highest esteem, so he would listen attentively and empathetically. He doesn’t have a gross-dude bone in his body, so he wouldn’t ask any unnecessary, leering questions. And more importantly, he’s wise, so he would give her a calm, reasoned, balanced response. But she’s burying the lede even to herself: he could certainly give her some unique insights into Janeway’s mindset about sex and romance and how she relates that to the command structure on Voyager. 

She hasn’t let herself consider him as a confidant until she’s already been thinking all kinds of crazy stuff because it’d be too cruel to approach him with this. He’s been in love with Janeway even longer than she has. Oh. Hu'tegh. Is that what this is? Surely not. Surely this is just a crush. Surely this is just flirtation that’s gone too far. Whatever it is, it’s not that deep. And that makes it all the worse to take to Chakotay. All the crueler to wave in his face.

B’Elanna and Chakotay had gotten drunk one night on this holodeck simulation he’d programmed of some gardens on Bajor, and he’d told her about that Angry Warrior sentimental horseshit he’d fed Janeway when they were quarantined. It had broken her heart to watch him try to pretend the rejection hadn’t broken his heart. It had broken her heart that throughout the story she was so jealous of his time with her that she could’ve strangled him to death. It had broken her heart that she had been relieved when he’d gotten to the bittersweet conclusion. It had broken her heart that they had always fallen in love with the same women, and none of the good ones had ever fallen in love with him.

As she’s thinking back through what she’s just thought through, a couple of points stick, like tacks in a car tire that start slow, inconspicuous leaks that nevertheless eventually incapacitate the vehicle. (Why does Tom bother to program in these tedious details that a real 20th-century person would’ve killed not to have had to deal with? And why does she still participate in these holoprograms and maybe even enjoy changing tires on the side of a desert two-lane blacktop at dusk?)

The first is she may not be in love with Janeway, but there’s more there than just flirtation taken too far. She’s not sure how much more is there, and she’s three-quarters to infuriated that she probably will never exactly know because Janeway will most likely, as per usual, initiate self-destruct.

The second is how Chakotay had denigrated his Angry Warrior story, probably so she wouldn’t make fun of him about the softness of it. But she had liked it. It could easily have been her fake legend as much as his fake legend. But the fact remains that he’d had the opportunity, and he’d played his hand, and he’d lost. If Janeway, relieved of her command and resigned to a new not-Starfleet life, couldn’t be seduced by that kind of clever obfuscation and heartfelt declaration of intention, then what are the chances that whatever blunt dumbassery that B’Elanna might come up with would even be a blip on her radar?

The third is that it shouldn’t surprise her anymore that she and Chakotay have the same questionable taste in women and approximately the same luck with said women. There’d been Seska, of course. But before that fiasco, an Andorian they’d both bought drinks for on Deep Space Six who’d rebuffed them both, B’Elanna’s xenobiology professor who’d bedded them both, the hot redhead Vedek who’d fucked Chakotay and then fucked them over by disclosing their location to her Cardassian overlords. And now Janeway. They have a type. And it’s powerful women with strong jaws who follow their own set of rules.

B’Elanna glances up at the chronometer on the wall. Fifteen minutes till her shift.

She drops to the floor, executes fifty push-ups, then rolls onto her back to stare blankly at the ceiling until it’s time to go.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tuvok gossip fluff? Well... don’t mind if I do.

Tuvok is at helm control, and he’s steering toward the dilithium-rich secondary moon of an M-class planet populated by a peaceful and gregarious pre-warp civilization that trades resources with warp-capable races in the area, and although they have primitive space travel technology, they don’t seem too keen on expanding. The representative Voyager’s been dealing with had said, “Why spend all the time and resources to go visit a bunch of folks who’ll eventually come to us anyway?” And B’Elanna admits there’s a certain logic there. 

So they’re on their way to meet with this person to finalize details, logistics, and extraction, and B’Elanna’s at the co-pilot spot, but she’s not doing much. There’s no need for her to do much other than to occasionally double-check their course or listen for a ping from a sensor, so to keep herself from either dozing off (unlikely) or spiraling some more about what she’s going to do about that kiss (very likely), she’s playing a little game with herself of If I Had to Pick Two Other Crew Members for an Away Mission So That It Wouldn’t Be So Boring. She’s sure it won’t be so boring when Neelix wakes up from his power nap, but then it’ll be slightly annoying rather than boring. Any other day, she would enjoy the silence while she could. But alas, her brain is trying its hardest to sabotage her, trying to get her riled up and unfocused. Hence the game. If she can take control of her brain with something frivolous and distracting, she can be all business when they get to that moon.

If I Had to Pick Two Other Crew Members… she needs a security officer and a diplomatic officer—of course the latter’s not really a department but a matter of interpretation of character. For security, definitely Ensign Lang. Ayala’s hot, but not a sparkling conversationalist. Deb Lang, on the other hand, is both hot and funny. For a diplomatic person, hmm. Maybe Tom. Although… He’s a good guy, but he seems to get arrested a lot on away missions. She doesn’t have a great track record in that regard, either, she supposes. Oh! Chell! He never gets to go on away missions, so he’d get himself over-prepared for it, and nobody could dislike him if they tried.

She’s about to change the parameters, make it into If I Had to Pick Two Other Crew Members to Make the Away Mission Worse, when Neelix is plopping into the chair behind her and leaning in to her, saying,

“I know it’s none of my business, but I wanted you to be able to get in front of the rumors. I know Mr. Vulcan here won’t repeat anything either of us might reveal. So. At breakfast this morning, the mess hall was veritably abuzz. Apparently, Ensign Brooks saw you entering your quarters last night and swears that you had lipstick smeared all over your face and neck, and Crewman Delaney—Jenny, not Megan—said around that same time she’d asked the computer for your location and you’d been in aeroponics, where Ensign Wildman was working alone. Crewman Dalby mentioned that a few nights ago he’d seen you two exiting the holodeck together and engaging in intimate conversation. And it’s common knowledge that both Lieutenant Nicoletti and Seven of Nine have crushes on Sam and are both very much the jealous type…”

B’Elanna laughs, says,

“Nobody on this fucking ship can even clip their nails without everyone knowing about it and theorizing about whom they’re getting ready to finger bang.” Neelix rears back with a shocked gasp, and Tuvok raises an eyebrow.

“Rather crass, Lieutenant, but not entirely inaccurate,” Tuvok says. B’Elanna laughs again, says,

“I suppose it was pretty crass. Sorry. But I can assure you I was not making out with Samantha Wildman last night. I was in aeroponics talking to her and Seven. About our upcoming doubles velocity match.”

“I see… And somewhere between there and your quarters, you…” Neelix says with a “keep going” hand gesture.

“I will be answering no further questions at this time. Thank you.” It’s another of the old-timey radio phrases she’s learned from Tom’s holodeck programs, something disgraced politicians or detectives on big cases with no leads say in news clips between songs with trite lyrics and catchy melodies and four-on-the-floor drums.

“While I am sure there are numerous plausible explanations as to why you were flushed and visibly distraught, and your clothing and makeup were in disarray when I witnessed you board the turbolift on Deck 3, I have no interest in asking after any of them,” Tuvok says.

“Deck 3! Who lives on Deck 3?” Neelix pauses, stares at a point over B’Elanna’s shoulder for a second, no doubt thinking through the crew manifest. “Tuvok, Commander Chakotay, Captain Janeway. And we know it wasn’t Mr. Vulcan. It’s gotta be Chakotay!”

“You two are really gonna gang up on me like this?” B’Elanna says.

“I was under the impression we were simply discussing ship interpersonal matters. No one is accusing you of anything, Lieutenant Torres,” Tuvok says.

“Excuse me? Neelix just now very explicitly accused me of having relations with Chakotay!”

“It was really more of a supposition than an accusation,” Neelix says.

“My thoughts exactly, Mr. Neelix,” Tuvok says.

“Wow. Glad you two are friends now, but I wish it didn’t have to be at my expense.”

“We are not friends. We are merely in agreement about the tone and trajectory of this conversation,” Tuvok says. Neelix mouths to B’Elanna,

“We are friends.” And then he says aloud, “So…? Have you and the Commander been an item since you were in the Maquis together? I can’t believe you’d be able to keep it a secret for that long. Surely this is a recent development?”

“Mr. Neelix. I believe you are now badgering Lieutenant Torres about something she does not wish to discuss further.”

“Which I wouldn’t be doing if you hadn’t given me that enticing tidbit!” Neelix says.

“You know exactly where I was last night, don’t you, Tuvok?” B’Elanna says, dread creeping along her shoulder blades.

“I have a solid hypothesis,” he says.

“Well?!” Neelix says.

So here we are. Let Neelix think she’s banging Chakotay, and soon the whole ship will be thinking that, as well. That’s certainly one way to keep the kiss a secret for a little longer. Or. Maybe Tuvok’s mentioned what he knows and what he supposes for a reason, has some Vulcan bullshit advice to give her. “It is illogical to constantly put oneself in a position of temptation.” Or something. Not even one ace left in the hole, it seems.

“Fine,” she says. “Spill it, Tuvok. What’s your hypothesis?”

“I would not normally betray the Captain’s confidence, but if my hypothesis is correct, which I am reasonably certain it is, her errors in logic and judgment concern you and your well-being, and therefore it would benefit you to know my thoughts on the subject.”

“The Captain?!” Neelix says.

“Might I remind you, Mr. Neelix, that both Vulcans and Klingons are superior in strength to Talaxians, and this is a very personal matter that requires both delicacy and discretion.” B’Elanna laughs.

“Are you threatening me, Mr. Vulcan?”

“Do I have cause to threaten you?” Tuvok says.

“No of course not. My lips are sealed.”

“So we know your hypothesis, but where’s the error in Janeway’s logic and judgment come in?” B’Elanna says.

“The Captain invited me to her quarters yesterday evening because she was troubled about an incident that had occurred and wished to discuss it with me in as vague terms as possible, but I think the three of us are intelligent enough to follow the evidence and come to the same conclusion about the general nature of this incident.” He pauses, and Neelix nods, and B’Elanna, sure by now that she is completely red in the face, repeats Neelix’s previous “keep going” hand gesture. Tuvok continues, “It is my belief that the Captain’s adherence to strict Starfleet protocol is sometimes illogical considering the current situation. I agree with her decision to follow the Prime Directive and many other foundational tenets that are essential to maintaining honor, decency, and order. However. There are many minor regulations that, in my opinion, may best be ignored in order to maximize crew cohesion and psychological health. I informed Captain Janeway of my opinion, and it is my hope that she will consider my arguments.”

“That’s the Vulcan way of saying he thinks you and the Captain are cute together,” Neelix says.

“On the contrary. The Vulcan way of saying that I ‘think you are cute together’ would be that I wish you prosperity in your romantic endeavors.”

“Well. This is a lot to take in. I can’t believe you went to bat for me like that,” B’Elanna says.

“As much as I respect you, Lieutenant, I did not do it for you personally. The Captain asked for my thoughts, and I gave them to her. Although I do believe you are a logical choice of companion for her.”

“That’s also the Vulcan way of saying he thinks you’re cute together!” Neelix says.

“Oh, can it. How’d she seem, though? Like she was gonna think about it? Or did she dismiss you? Or…?” B’Elanna says.

“If she had not been prepared to consider my opinion, she would not have asked for it.”

“Fair enough,” B’Elanna says. “But if she didn’t consider your opinion the last time you had this conversation, why would she this time?”

“Why do you assume we have had this conversation before?”

“I—” Neelix is staring at her expectantly, and Tuvok has his eyebrow crooked. She flounders a bit. She’d have put replicator rations on Janeway’s having told Tuvok about New Earth. But maybe to Janeway a bathtub is just a bathtub. She says finally, still faltering, “It’s. Well. We’ve been out here for more than four years. Just figured it would’ve come up before now.”

“It has, obliquely. We have had similar discussions in the past. However. They have been more speculative and purely philosophical rather than triggered by a specific antecedent.”

“Speaking of, what was the specific antecedent, exactly?” Neelix says.

“Nope. You know more than I’d care for you to know already,” B’Elanna says. Tuvok looks at her full in the face, very stern:

“Please make no mention of this to her when you speak with her again. I don’t believe she would perceive my candidness with you as useful or necessary. And if I may offer some advice: I suggest you do not give her too long to contemplate. Although she is a competent leader who often makes the logical and favorable decision for her crew, she is also adept at dissuading herself from logical and favorable decisions regarding her personal feelings.”

“Thanks, Commander. I owe you one.” He raises an eyebrow.

“If you are genuine about wanting to compensate me—although I have told you nothing you did not already know but have merely confirmed what you suspected and you are regarding my opinions that align with yours as allyship—I would appreciate it if you would relieve me of my Gamma shift Monday evening.”

“You sly fox! I didn’t know Vulcans did tit for tat!” Neelix says.

“This is not ‘tit for tat.’ It is a favor exchanged between colleagues who respect each other,” Tuvok says.

“And how many Vulcans do you know, anyway?” B’Elanna says as she laughs. But really, she’d been thinking the same thing. “I’d love to, Tuvok, but I’m not sure if it’s a good fit. Sure I’ve got a good right hook, but chief of security? I’m really just a glorified mechanic…”

“On my rotations on Gamma shift, because of my rank and seniority, I serve as shift commander. You would be filling that role, not chief of security. You are adequately qualified to do so. And in fact if Captain Janeway, Commander Chakotay, and I were all incapacitated, you would be in the position permanently.”

“Oh. Well. I guess I ought to get some practice at it, then,” B’Elanna says. Neelix leans in, and B’Elanna can see his wheels are turning. He says,

“But you never miss a shift. What is it that you want to be doing instead of your rotation on Gamma?” 

B’Elanna laughs. He’s already rooting around for new gossip. She likes Neelix; she really does. He tries so hard to be all things to all people, and the two of them have done some good, old-fashioned Klingon drinking and carousing in a holoprogram he’d programmed that was some nutty amalgamation of Q'onoS and Boston, Massachusetts. He’s a fun, big-hearted guy, and one of his best qualities, in B’Elanna’s opinion, is his absolute devotion to Captain Janeway. She’d been embarrassed for him to know about what had happened between them, but she had been honestly more worried about Tuvok’s reaction because one, she knows that Janeway considers Tuvok her best friend on the ship and puts a lot of stock in his advice, and B’Elanna can never quite predict what Tuvok will or won’t approve of, and two, she knows that for Neelix’s many faults, he would never do anything to betray Janeway and so she’d not been too concerned about his blabbing about it.

“I have been tutoring Seven of Nine in Vulcan meditation techniques, and she has requested an extra lesson this week. Our schedules have precluded us from being able to meet thus far,” Tuvok says.

“Now wait a cotton-picking minute!” B’Elanna says. “Did she specifically request Monday’s Gamma shift?”

“Affirmative.”

“And did she suggest you ask me to swap with you?”

“Affirmative.” 

B’Elanna shoots out of her co-pilot’s seat. She’s pacing, saying,

“This Borg petaQ!”

“Lieutenant Torres. I do not understand what warrants your use of such invective,” Tuvok says.

“Yeah, I thought you two were getting along better these days. That erroneous rumor about you and Samantha Wildman notwithstanding,” Neelix says.

“Oh we get along just fine. But she’s got something to prove to me just now. Thinks she’s going to teach me a lesson. She thinks she’s going to exhaust me making me work double shifts before our velocity game Tuesday night. Well, she ought to remember from having assimilated species 5008 that when we get tired, we get mean.”


	6. Chapter 6

Sure, when Klingons get tired they typically get mean. But there are other possibilities depending on circumstance. A tired Klingon might just as well get reckless. Or might get sentimental. Or might get contemplative. Or might get impulsive. There are a lot of variables involved. And B’Elanna’s got even more variables because she’s not fully Klingon, and a tired human is almost as volatile as a tired Klingon. Mix a tired Klingon and a tired human together and it’s a powder keg of possibilities.

B’Elanna and Tuvok and Neelix had successfully acquired the dilithium, but their away mission had taken the better part of the day, and afterward, they’d all been succinctly debriefed by Chakotay. So now, after having stored the dilithium in Cargo Bay 1, finishing her duty log report, showering, and forcing herself to eat something, it’s nearly midnight, and she’s tired. 

She’s tired, but she’s not sleepy. A significant distinction. And she’s pacing her quarters in her faded high school Kessik IV Region 8 Cowpokes Velocity Team sweatshirt and bike shorts, nursing a glass of Kentucky straight bourbon whiskey. She’s mulling over what Tuvok had revealed—both about Janeway and about Seven. Both revelations had been surprising in their own ways.

Now that her raw emotions have been dulled by time removed from the initial conversation, exhaustion, and bourbon, she’s rather impressed by Seven’s subterfuge. Seven had been a lot more subtle and sly than B’Elanna would’ve thought her capable. The plot had been miscalculated, certainly, but industrious—a good effort and an ambitious move for a beginner. But B’Elanna’s an old pro at this sort of thing. At least half of being a Maquis had been gradually chipping away at defenses, after all. So she has some insight into Seven’s plan, and she knows how to counteract the parts of it that she knows. If Seven’s plan has hidden elements she’s not privy to, well, that’s a Tuesday problem.

Her current, Friday-night problem is Janeway. 

If she’s honest with herself, her main problem has always been Janeway. Even before they met, the pristine Starfleet ideals Janeway stands for have been her problem. She’d grown up isolated in her Klingon household—the sole Klingon household in the area—oppressed by those Starfleet ideals. She’d matriculated at the Academy, been equal parts apt and belligerent during her time there. She’d joined the Maquis—a direct rebellion against both her upbringing and Starfleet. And now here she is, fourth in line of command of a Starfleet vessel sixty thousand light years from Earth and intensely attracted to the only person on the ship who adamantly adheres to Starfleet protocol. 

B’Elanna’s not sure whether she wants Janeway because Janeway’s a symbol of authority to be conquered or because Janeway’s a symbol of authority to be benevolently conquered by or because Janeway’s an attractive woman who happens to be her type. But whatever Janeway is to her as either metaphor or actuality, she’s a problem regardless. She’d been a philosophical problem for as long as B’Elanna’s been onboard, and a fantasy problem for almost as long, but as of Thursday evening, she’s been a more acute, palpable problem.

She might as well go ahead and take Tuvok’s advice. It’s not like she’s going to be sleeping anytime soon.

So she Jenny Delaneys the Captain.

“Captain Kathryn Janeway is in her quarters,” the computer says. 

B’Elanna’s not sure she trusts herself in Janeway’s quarters, but there she is anyway.

Three door chimes with no answer later, she’s half-sure Janeway is eluding her on purpose. Regardless, B’Elanna inquires again.

“Captain Kathryn Janeway is at the viewport on Deck 6,” the computer says.

Janeway is leaning on her forearms on the railing at the viewport on Deck 6, and she’s in her pink satin nightgown but with a pink satin robe wrapped around her, probably for the illusion of decency. B’Elanna can’t help but think it’s enticing. If she weren’t so attracted to her, it might be an ambivalent ensemble. She’d better shut that line of thinking down before she opens her mouth.

She stands a foot or so away and stares at the viewport. Voyager’s not at warp currently because they’re still processing the new dilithium, so the stars look like stars instead of streaks, and it’s a nice change. She wonders what kinds of myths the inhabitants of this section have about the constellations they can see and starts making up a story about the big orange one that catches her eye. The impulse to do so is accidental, but she follows through on purpose: if she can focus on one thing, she’ll be sharper when she needs to shift gears. Or she hopes that will be how it turns out. She wouldn’t put money on it, though.

They stand there together for a few minutes, not speaking and certainly not looking at each other.

Janeway says,

“I didn’t know whether you intended to come back to get your leather jacket at some point, so I didn’t recycle it.”

B’Elanna remembers how the garment had slipped to the floor as she had reached to bring Janeway closer, how they’d slotted against each other, how she’d wanted to devour and be devoured. Is that what Janeway thinks about when she thinks about that leather jacket?

“That’s thoughtful of you,” B’Elanna says. “It’s stupid, but it comes in handy for a lot of the holoprograms I find myself in.”

“I don’t think it’s stupid. I thought you looked rather striking in it.”

“Oh. Well. Thanks.”

They’re silent again, and then B’Elanna clears her throat, says,

“I don’t want to interrupt if you want to be alone,” B’Elanna says.

“It’s a public viewport,” Janeway says.

“But that doesn’t mean you don’t want to be alone,” B’Elanna says.

“I don’t want to be alone,” Janeway says.

B’Elanna tries not to read too much into that statement. She leans on the railing, mirrors Janeway’s posture, says,

“I um. I’ve been wanting to talk to you. Is this a good time and place?”

Janeway turns, looks at her, says,

“I don’t see why not. You’re probably less likely to try anything in public.” There’s a half smirk on her lips and in her voice. That’s a good sign. Friendly and flirtatious. If there’s a reprimand to come, surely it won’t be a total disavowal as she’d been dreading. It’ll just be something like, “We may carry on as usual in public, but I do not trust either of us alone together in private.” B’Elanna can accept that and work with that. It might even be the best option. She says,

“I wouldn’t bet on that, but I’ll try to behave myself.”

“Good enough for me,” Janeway says, turning back toward the viewport. “What would you like to discuss?” 

Here comes the hard part. B’Elanna has not rehearsed a speech and in fact hasn’t quite decided what the desired outcome of this conversation might be. Her jumbled brain spits out:

“You know what I was thinking about this morning?”

“If I had to guess, I’d wager it was the same thing I was thinking about this morning.”

“Well yes. Of course that. But I suddenly remembered about that spatial rift a couple years back that copied the ship and all the crew.” Janeway looks at her again, an eyebrow now raised. She continues, “And I was kind of wishing they were still around. I was thinking about how I’d like to talk to a version of you I hadn’t… well. I was thinking about how I wanted to see what you’d say about it as a neutral third party.” They stare at each other for a second, and Janeway reaches out and touches B’Elanna’s face, skims her thumb over her cheekbone, says,

“Why would you think any version of me would be able to be neutral about you?” B’Elanna leans into the touch, says,

“Well one of you would have to be more neutral than the other. I’m very talented, but I can’t kiss two girls at once.”

Janeway laughs, and the action jostles the precarious knot of her robe, which loosens enough to let the robe slip open. B’Elanna can now see the peaks of her nipples through the thin fabric of her nightgown, and she gently places her fingers around Janeway’s wrist and removes her hand from her face. But she leaves her fingers on her wrist, rubs her thumb across the veins and tendons. Janeway’s eyes flutter closed, and B’Elanna releases her wrist, says,

“I guess what I’m trying to figure out is. How do you want to run this, going forward?” Janeway’s eyes are suddenly open and boring into her. Janeway says,

“B’Elanna. I know you. You’re thinking fifteen different things and saying exactly none of them.”

“Ok, pot,” B’Elanna says. Janeway rolls her eyes and braces herself on the railing on her elbow, runs a hand through her hair. She says,

“I could choose the easy route, keep you at arm’s length, pretend it’s enough for me, pretend it’s fair to you, pretend it’s the right way. The only right way.”

“Or?” B’Elanna says, her heart pounding against her ribs.

“Or,” Janeway says, and then her free hand shoots forward, and that hand clutches a fistful of B’Elanna’s sweatshirt and pulls her toward her. Their lips meet suddenly and forcefully, and Janeway’s tongue is insistent. B’Elanna opens her mouth, admits her, and she’s got her arms wrapped around Janeway without even having thought about it.

Janeway’s pressing herself against her, one hand trapped between their bodies and the other at B’Elanna’s scalp, digging in and pulling closer. Janeway pivots so that her back is against the railing, dragging B’Elanna with her by hands and mouth. They’re kissing, and it’s feverish and wild.

The railing is decorative rather than for safety. B’Elanna grips Janeway’s hips and lifts her, places her on the railing and places herself between Janeway’s spread legs. She’s running her hands up the outside of Janeway’s thighs, and Janeway is tugging at her scalp with one hand and the other is underneath her sweatshirt now, fingers splayed against her ribs and traveling up, and they’re still kissing and kissing.

B’Elanna tears her mouth away, ghosts it over Janeway’s cheekbone, whispers into her ear,

“If you don’t stop me, I’m going to mark you. And then I’m going to fuck you. This is your chance to tell me no.”

Janeway’s hand in her hair tightens. The hand underneath her sweatshirt also clenches, fingers possessive against soft flesh.

“I’m not going to tell you no,” Janeway says.

“You’re sure?” B’Elanna says.

“Quit dicking me around already,” Janeway says.

B’Elanna bites her cheek then, and Janeway tremors beneath her.

Janeway’s blood is in her mouth—metallic and sweet—and she kisses her again. It’s just as much or maybe even more than she could’ve imagined. Janeway is kissing her as much as she is kissing Janeway.

As one of B’Elanna’s hands moves swiftly over quadriceps and then in between spread-eagle thighs and then down, she traces the elastic of underwear and then descends. It’s just her fore and middle finger exploring, and Janeway’s so wet. She circles Janeway’s opening and then drags her fingers up to her clit, circles that, too, drags her fingers back down. Janeway bucks and moans. Human girls are like that sometimes: very sensitive labia minora.

B’Elanna’s stroking there with her fingers as her tongue is sliding against Janeway’s tongue when she registers that there are bootfalls on corrugated metal.

“Fucking A,” Janeway says. “Ensign Lang on security rounds.”

“There’s the viewport observation office…”

Janeway pushes at her shoulders, says,

“No. Take me home.”


	7. Chapter 7

B’Elanna’s been awake for probably half an hour, just lying here enjoying the feeling of being tightly spooned from behind by a naked Janeway, their fingers twined both over her equally naked stomach and beneath her pillow. There’s a pleasant ache between her legs and the hot hiss of Janeway’s slow, steady breath against her neck and the sticky silk of their nude flesh pressed together. She revels in the sumptuousness of all the sensations.

But also she’s staring at a bulkhead and thinking. She does have the ability to just feel to feel, but she has to really put a lot of effort into doing so. Her natural state is to feel and to think and to rethink and to overthink and to think about the first thing and then feel the second thing, etc. ad nauseum. When she’s alone like this it’s not a problem; it’s just how her brain works. If Janeway wakes up and catches her thinking fifteen things at once, that’s a different story—not a problem per se, but a different way of organizing her thoughts is required to engage in conversation with anyone but herself.

About twenty minutes previous, B’Elanna had felt the ship lurch into warp briefly, coast for a few minutes, and then slip out again. She knows Chakotay’s got the bridge this morning and that his orders are for he and Carey to do a couple test runs with the new dilithium, and then sometime later Janeway and she will check over everything, do a final test just for precaution, and then they’ll be cooking with gas. Where had that phrase come from? Ah. That’s right out of the gum-chewing mouth of the cigarette girl at the Coeur de Lion.

She’d expected Janeway to have awakened at the jump to warp, had figured Janeway’s body and brain—even unconsciously—would be in tune to Voyager’s hums and purrs and bucks. Her own body is, after all. She always wakes at any change of speed or course, and she’d suspected Janeway would be the same way. Especially now, knowing how in tune Janeway had been to B’Elanna’s hums and purrs and bucks last night. 

But Janeway’s still motionless and sedate behind her, and she’s glad rather than disappointed. The Captain deserves an uninterrupted rest. B’Elanna’s known intellectually for quite a while that the constant burden of command has been getting to her, but she has a new, visceral understanding of just how on edge Janeway’s been: the way they’d been together last night had been as illuminating as it had been erotic.

B’Elanna considers it distasteful to think about another woman while she’s in Janeway’s warm, smooth, firm bed and warm, smooth, firm arms, but she can’t help it: Jenny Delaney had been so right. So exactly right about the core issue of the matter even though Delaney had probably thought of it on a more surface level. They should’ve been banging for years, yes. But that’s not all they should’ve been doing, and that’s not exactly what they had done. She’s not really the type to make love, but Janeway had taken everything she had to give and had growled for more, and Janeway, in turn, had given almost more than B’Elanna could take. There had been a lot there. The physical acts themselves had been intense, but the impetus and drive behind them are what B’Elanna’s thinking about right now. How it’d all been as much compulsion and need as it had been desire. How Janeway had needed an outlet, a place to be different and feel different things other than just guilt and responsibility. 

It’s here that the train tracks of her thought fork.

On the metaphorical east fork, B’Elanna’s thinking that maybe she’s the only person who could provide what Janeway needs in this context. But she’s always been the kind of person to be completely convinced of her own abilities while simultaneously questioning her worthiness, so she’s wondering about the exact chain of events and chain of emotions that have led to this and how surely any of this could have led Janeway to just anyone under the right conditions. She knows Janeway’s had at the very least one other opportunity to indulge herself and shed her heavy captain skin. There’s got to be a reason, or perhaps several reasons, that Janeway had chosen this particular moment and this particular avenue to indulge herself and forget herself and enjoy herself. There’s got to be a reason that’s more about Janeway’s psyche than it is about the other person involved. At least that’s what B’Elanna’s thinking on that fork of the train tracks of her brain.

On the metaphorical west fork, B’Elanna’s thinking maybe she’d been selling Jenny Delaney short. Maybe Delaney sees more than anyone suspects of her, knows exactly how unhinged Janeway can be if she lets herself. Alternately, maybe she’s attributing more gravitas to Janeway than is really there. Maybe there’s actually not a dark undercurrent of suppressed emotion that drives her; maybe she just wants B’Elanna because they have a lot of chemistry. Maybe Janeway’s really just a regular old simple woman who sometimes just needs a night of no-strings sex to get sorted and get her mind right to be ready to go back to her nine-to-five.

The conductor in B’Elanna’s brain switches tracks and switches back again. She doesn’t know which fork to take.

And she doesn’t know whether a choice here will ultimately affect the destination. Sometimes a fork leads to two different termina, but sometimes a fork serves to circumvent an obstacle and then the forks meet and converge again and let out at the same spot.

So she must now think about the terminus. Whatever the beginning had been is gone, a memory in steam and smoke and iron rails. And there’s another fork ahead: will this happen again, perhaps even become a part of their routine, or will it have been a singular occurrence, something to remember fondly but never speak about, or will it be some secret affair that continues in shadow until they can’t hide it anymore and must end it, probably very painfully?

B’Elanna’s lying there in Janeway’s embrace, enjoying the embrace but also thinking about whether she should be in the embrace in the first place and whether she’ll be invited into the embrace again. And then there’s Janeway’s voice, a puff of breath at her neck:

“Good morning.”

“Good morning,” B’Elanna says.

Janeway withdraws the hand under B’Elanna’s pillow, but the hand holding hers at her stomach squeezes.

“You’ve been awake since before we jumped to warp, haven’t you?” Janeway says, gravelly and low. So B’Elanna had been right, after all, and Janeway is just a good fake sleeper.

“Hmm yeah. I thought you were still asleep. Didn’t want to disturb you.” Janeway snuggles in a little closer, says,

“Or you wanted sufficient time to rile yourself up.”

“Six to one, half-dozen to the other.”

“I usually try not to rile myself up before a cup of coffee,” Janeway says, gently extricating herself from B’Elanna to stretch and yawn. B’Elanna turns over and watches as Janeway stands slowly and ambles to the replicator. “Want one?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

“Two creams, no sugar?”

“On the nosey,” B’Elanna says as she sits up. She can’t recall the last time they’d had coffee together, wonders how long Janeway’s had her preference memorized, who else’s she has memorized.

“While I usually try not to rile myself up before coffee, I couldn’t really help myself this morning,” Janeway says, picking up the two cups and walking back to the bed. She hands one to B’Elanna and then sits on the edge of the bed next to her. 

“Oh?” B’Elanna says, blows on her coffee so she doesn’t have to look at Janeway’s eyes. So here it is. For all the things she’d been thinking, getting the “I like you, but this was a mistake” speech immediately hadn’t been one of them. She should’ve been more thorough.

“I’ve been thinking about what the probability would be that you might want to pursue something with me. I’ve convinced myself that it’s not great odds, but I thought it’d be better to put my cards on the table than to flat assume.” B’Elanna chokes on the drink she’s just taken. 

“Let me get this straight: you’re not worried about the fraternization policy or ship gossip. You’re worried that I’m a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am type?” B’Elanna says, flabbergasted and a little offended.

“I hadn’t meant to imply that. This is why I shouldn’t start overthinking things until I’ve had some caffeine. I very much am worried about both the fraternization policy and ship gossip. And I figured you would be, too. Which is why I assumed you might find it easier to… amicably part ways and—”

“Oh quit that. You want me to want that so we don’t have to have any further discussions,” B’Elanna says.

“That is not true by half!” She gesticulates a little too forcefully, and a few drops of coffee spill on B’Elanna’s thigh. Janeway swipes at the little puddle with her thumb and then splays her fingers out and squeezes, looks into B’Elanna’s eyes. “Sure it’d be the easy way out. But I’m not sure I’m strong enough for it.”

“But you thought maybe I would be and would take one for the team? Well I’m not, and I won’t. We’re in it together, now. If you wanted some romantic martyr to tell you what you want to hear and then pine after you silently as you do your own silent pining separately, you should’ve picked a different sort of sap. There are plenty on board to choose from.” Janeway stands and places her coffee on the nightstand, paces with one hand on her hip and the other at her temple, scoffs,

“I ‘should’ve picked a different sort of sap’? What are you suggesting? That I'm not actually incredibly attracted to you but that I pulled your name out of a hat?”

“Well, not exactly. But there are other people who would be willing to—”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe so. But I’ve also been riling myself up without any caffeine.” Janeway laughs one sharp bark and then,

“You’re right. I should’ve expected you’d have slightly different insecurities. We think alike in so many ways that I sometimes forget it’s not a one-to-one correlation.”

“Yeah. There’s that. And we do tend to like to talk around each other instead of to each other,” B’Elanna says. She pauses and reaches out, grabs Janeway’s wrist. Janeway stops pacing, looks at her. B’Elanna continues, “Kathryn, I’m just going to say it: I do want to pursue something with you. I don’t know what exactly. But something.”

Janeway looks at her for another moment and then slides back onto the bed, settles herself against B’Elanna’s side and laces their fingers together.

“My thoughts exactly,” Janeway says. They sit together for a minute, holding hands, drinking coffee. And then Janeway hums, says, “I’d rather not go public just yet. But would you like to bet on how long it will be before everyone knows anyway?”

“Oh I’d rather not go public probably ever. But that said. Less than a week,” B’Elanna says.

“Is that your official wager?”

“Yes. I have a bad poker face, and you’re not great at not letting me make out with you whenever I want.” Janeway laughs.

“Well. Maybe knowing that you don’t have to take whatever you can get and run will allow you to be a little more judicious about where you choose to make out with me from now on.” B’Elanna laughs.

“Still. Inside of a week.”

“I have more faith in our discretion than you do, I guess. Two weeks.” B’Elanna laughs again. She doesn’t know how much she should let on about her shuttle ride with Tuvok and Neelix, goes for smugness:

“Babe, you obviously don’t hear as many rumors as I do on a daily basis. Three days, tops.” Janeway raises an eyebrow, says,

“I’ll take that bet.”

“Ok. And what’s at stake here?” Janeway deposits her empty cup on the nightstand, taps a finger on B’Elanna’s shoulder, squints. And then,

“I got to see a lot of the aggressive Klingon foreplay last night. But I’ve heard a lot of good things about Klingon poetry…” B’Elanna rolls her eyes, says half-laughing,

“You want me to write you a poem?” Janeway shrugs and smirks. “You’ll be glad when you don’t win this one. My poetry is very bad.”

“I don’t doubt it, but you love a challenge.”

“Well, yes. Accepted. When I win, you have to—actually no. I’m not going to gamble with that one—” Janeway interrupts her:

“What aren’t you gambling with? Something serious?” Janeway’s face is her open, compassionate face. B’Elanna says,

“I’m not sure how serious it is. I’ve never heard her complain about it. I just don’t want to gamble with something that’s not mine to gamble with, you know? Anyway, it’s Seven. She deserves a uniform. If she wants one. And maybe some private quarters.”

“Oh. You’re sweet to think of her. We’ve discussed it, but she says she’s not quite ready yet about the uniform. And she’s working on some schematics for a regeneration chamber that will be more power-efficient in crew quarters. So. She’s covered.”

“I’m glad.” B’Elanna pauses. “Alright. What do I want when I win…? Oh I know. Half my time on shift is spent having to be up and down and here and there finding tools because I don’t have any pockets in my vaunted Starfleet uniform. I want a regulation-compliant smock that has pockets.”

“You know you could just submit a request to Chakotay for that, right?”

“Yes. But I want the satisfaction of having you pay for it personally. And I know about your old Indiana home. You can go ahead and hand stitch my name in it, too.” Janeway laughs and changes the grip of their still-joined hands so that they can shake on it, says,

“It’s a bet. All I need are 73 hours, babe.” B’Elanna’s laugh is cut short as Janeway’s commbadge on the nightstand chirps:

“Chakotay to Janeway.” She reaches over and taps it.

“Go ahead.”

“I think we’re ready for final checks on this dilithium.”

“Give me twenty.”

“Aye, Captain,” he says, and Janeway squeezes B’Elanna’s hand. B’Elanna says,

“Well, Captain. How do you plan on my getting out of here without immediately losing the bet?”

“It’d be cheating to do a site to site transport. I trust you to be stealthy.” She leans over and kisses B’Elanna, slow and sweet and somehow teasing, too.

“Don’t forget to do something about that bite mark, or I won’t need to be stealthy at all.”

“Noted,” Janeway says and kisses her again.

B’Elanna’s in a Jefferies tube between Decks 4 and 5 when her commbadge finally chirps with Carey’s very similar message, and she gives him a very similar response. Except Carey doesn’t end transmission. He says,

“Where are you right now? There’s a weird echo, and you’re panting. Are you in a Jefferies tube?”

“I’m both off duty and your superior officer. How is it any of your business?”

“Goll-Ee, Chief. Just curious.”

“Well go be curious about something else. Torres out.”

She might not normally have been so testy with him, but she’d accidentally chosen the absolute worst network of Jefferies tubes to try to get to Deck 9. And all the straining in the dimness had reminded her of two things: one, that it had been a while since she’d had a long night of vigorous sexual activity let alone a long night of vigorous sexual activity the same day she’d impulsively started her morning with a bat’leth workout, and a lot of muscles she’d been using to navigate narrow, cluttered halls had already been overtaxed, and two, those muscles will be getting no reprieve whatsoever—just then, stumbling over a hyperspanner she’d lost weeks ago, she’d remembered that she and Chakotay had scheduled a boxing program for that afternoon. It had been when she’d just started revving up to worry about that upcoming event that Carey had hailed her.

So she stops and runs a hand through her hair, takes a breath. She’s got to cut some time off her commute so she can get herself together enough to apologize to Carey and do her work adequately. She climbs out on Deck 5 and hopes anyone who might see her might think she’d been in a holodeck when she gets on the turbolift from there. That she’s wearing very stupid pajamas and looks decidedly rode hard and put away wet do not fit into this slapdash plan, but it’s better than nothing.

Carey’s hunched over a console, and Vorik and Seven are flanking him at each shoulder, Vorik holding a micro-resonator and Seven holding a PADD.

“Good morning, listeners. It’s 9:43 am and 76 degrees on this cloudless day in beautiful, downtown Engineering. We now go to reporter-in-the-field Joe Carey for the latest news,” B’Elanna says in her old-timey radio broadcaster voice. Vorik crooks an eyebrow, but he’s been to Tom’s holoprograms plenty and she knows he knows exactly what she’s doing. Seven doesn’t even look up. Carey raises his head, says,

“Glad to see you shook off your foul mood.”

“Yeah sorry about that. I was in a Jefferies tube and annoyed about it. Woke up and suddenly remembered where I’d lost that hyperspanner a while back.” She brandishes it as evidence. Seven pierces her with a look she can’t place—her best guess is it’s either haughty annoyance or smug satisfaction. But Seven doesn’t say anything. There’s a dismissive flick of her brow, and then she turns back to focusing on her PADD.

“Well, reporter-in-the-field Joe Carey? What’ve you got for me?” B’Elanna says. Carey straightens the rest of the way, smooths down his jacket, grins as he says,

“Well, Chief. I’m happy to report that the problems you noted on initial inspection are actually the opposite of problems. The irregular readings that your tricorder couldn’t process? Turns out, that was because this dilithium is purer and more stable than the purest and stablest form in our database. We had to cut it with carbon to get the warp core to accept it. So that’s good for us on two levels: we extend the life of our fuel, and we have an alternate way of disposing of waste.”

“Hot dog, Carey! That’s excellent!” They high five, and Vorik and Seven share a look about it. “Let me just slide in here and take a look-see at the specs.”

She and Carey are hip to hip at the console, and she reads over his report and the magneton scans and the computer’s logs of the tests and the warp coil real-time readouts. It all checks out on paper, or onscreen as it were. She heads next to the warp core and studies the input and output readings, inspects the warp core itself with her naked eyes. The old gal looks good. She taps her commbadge:

“Torres to Janeway.”

“Go ahead, Lieutenant.”

“All looks good down here. You ready to take her for a spin?”

“Affirmative.”

A few seconds of silence, and then Baytart has apparently kicked her into overdrive. The warp core glows bright and perfect.

B’Elanna’s still at the warp censors, everything pulsing exactly right, and Carey’s at the console, giving her a thumbs up, and Seven’s at another console now, nodding at her. Vorik’s got his micro-resonator scanning an info-nodule on the coupling of a warp coil and is announcing,

“Warp 2 within acceptable parameters. Warp 3 within acceptable parameters.” B’Elanna relegates this to white noise as she alternates between watching monitors and watching the warp core itself. It’s a minute, five minutes, twenty minutes. No change, no disturbance. And she lets herself actively hear Vorik’s every-minute-on-the-minute update: “Top speed of Warp 9.975 achieved. Warp 9.975 within acceptable parameters.”

She smiles, but she stays where she is until an hour has passed. Then she taps her commbadge:

“Torres to Janeway.”

“Yes, Lieutenant?”

“All clear?”

“All clear here if all clear there.”

“We’re cooking with gas down here, Captain.”

“That's exactly what I want to hear, Lieutenant. You’re dismissed.” She can hear the triumph and joy in Janeway’s voice.

B’Elanna turns away from the warp core, says to all of Engineering,

“Good work, everybody. Return to regular duty.”

She’s striding toward the doorway, intent on a good holographic massage and soak in a holographic hot tub before her boxing match with Chakotay, but Seven is at her elbow, also exiting. She prickles at the unaccustomed proximity, but she tries to shake it off and go left where she knows Seven will probably go right. But neither of them go anywhere. In the corridor, Seven has placed her considerable form in front of B’Elanna, effectively halting her, and is saying in as confidential a tone as a former Borg drone might be capable of,

“I have not yet had the pleasure and privilege of having awakened in Samantha Wildman’s sleeping quarters after having engaged in a prolonged period of copulation the previous evening, but given what admittedly little I know first-hand about intimate relationships and the hormones and emotions involved with same, I highly doubt my first coherent post-coital thought would be about a misplaced incidental engineering tool.” So that inscrutable look had been smug satisfaction.

“An enlightening insight into the former-Borg mind,” B’Elanna says, attempting to brush past her. But Seven shifts and blocks her.

“Do you admit what I suspect? Or do you wish to engage in a battle of wits?” Seven says. Her voice is as even as ever, but her brow is cocked and loaded.

“I’ll pass on both, if you don’t mind,” B’Elanna says.

“I do mind,” Seven says. B’Elanna looks over Seven’s shoulder at the shut doors of the turbolift longingly.

“Fine,” B’Elanna says. “Battle of wits. Go.”

“I do not possess hard evidence,” Seven says. “But circumstantial evidence has been enough for many sentient species to convict in impartial courts across many millennia.” B’Elanna rolls her eyes—but she does so for effect, as a diversion. B’Elanna says,

“So you’ve got nothing.”

They look at each other.

“I have more than nothing but less than something,” Seven says. “But let me assure you: I am very determined.”

“I’d put money on that,” B’Elanna says. “But get back with me when you’ve got a better theory.”

They look at each other again.

And when B’Elanna makes to brush past her this time, she is able to do so.

B’Elanna’s not quite limber enough or in the right mindset to be a good sparring partner for Chakotay.

But. It’s 1600 hours, and here B’Elanna is, squaring up.

The first round is squarely Chakotay’s. And so is the second round. The third round, too.

“Computer pause program,” Chakotay says.

The walls shimmer, and B’Elanna says,

“What’s the problem?”

“You’re letting me win,” Chakotay says.

“I’m not,” B’Elanna says.

“You are. And there’s a reason for it,” Chakotay says.

“Why can’t you just let a good thing happen to you?” B’Elanna says.

“Because I’m as stubborn as you are,” Chakotay says.


	8. Chapter 8

It had been much easier to dodge and feint and weave around Chakotay’s questions as they’d been boxing.

But now at the holographic simulation of the shitty falafel joint down the grimy street from Chakotay’s childhood boxing gym on Trebus, it’s much more difficult to not just confess and get it over with.

B’Elanna’s on lamb gyro two and also on-tap beer two, and Chakotay’s slowly making his way through the modest falafel plate he’d ordered and his first beer, and he’s looking at her awfully thoughtfully. Too thoughtfully for B’Elanna’s comfort.

“If there were something wrong, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you?” Chakotay says.

“Of course. But nothing’s wrong. I’m good.”

“And yet I beat you four rounds in a row before you finally got your shit together. That hasn’t happened since I was back at the Academy for my command exam and we both ended up sleeping with your xenobiology professor and you felt so guilty about stealing her from me that you went easy on me in the ring.” She hadn’t remembered that string of events in exactly that order, but she supposes it tracks. She hadn’t deliberately gone easy on him then or now; it’d been a side effect of being distracted and guilty and wanting to talk to him but not wanting to hurt him, and he’d interpreted it as a kindness or perhaps a reparation or maybe even submission, like a dog who could rip your throat out more easily than looking at you rolling over and showing you her belly. 

She tries to remember how she’d handled that situation. She doesn’t think she’d handled it at all. She runs through the timeline looking for clues. She’d found out that she had inadvertently been sleeping with his kind of girlfriend and had scheduled some boxing as an excuse to talk to him. They’d boxed, and she hadn’t worked up the nerve to bring up the topic. He’d taken the command exam. He’d left to serve on the Appomattox or the Bull Run or the Gettysburg—some ship named after an Ancient American Civil War battle, anyway. And the xenobiology professor had moved on to someone else—or probably several someone elses. Not a neat, controlled, satisfying resolution, but she and Chakotay’s friendship hadn’t suffered for it. It’s not exactly analogous to their current situation, though. Neither of them had been particularly fond of that gal. They’d discussed her years later on an away mission when a gas giant they had been surveying to determine whether they could extract deuterium there had been the exact shade of cerulean as her eyes, and they’d both agreed she had been a good lay but not good long-term-partner potential. Chakotay’s main complaints had been that she’d been terribly untidy and a narcissist. B’Elanna had agreed and had added that she’d also been humorless and boring. 

So. Completely not analogous to the current situation. But he must’ve seen something in her eyes that had been similar enough. She says,

“I’m just tired and sore. Did a bat’leth workout yesterday before that long-ass away mission.” He clicks his tongue, and she knows she’s said too much already.

“You do bat’leth workouts exclusively when you’re upset,” he says.

“Not exclusively.”

“Nearly exclusively enough to be statistically significant, though,” he says.

“Let’s call it the exception that proves the rule,” she says, and she finishes her beer, wipes her mouth with her napkin. He watches her and hums.

“I guess,” he says. “You want another?”

“No matter how drunk you get me, I’m not skinny dipping with you in that nasty sludge streak Trebus calls a river.” He laughs then and says,

“Who said anything about skinny dipping? I just want to get you drunk enough to tell me whatever secret you’re keeping from me.”

“Ah yes. You’re a snoop, not a lech. It’s hard to keep all my friends’ personalities straight when I’m half-dead with exhaustion and two beers in.”

“Excuse you. I’m not a snoop. I’m merely concerned about you because you’re my friend. But that said, who’s the skinny-dipping lech?” She laughs, says,

“You really haven’t heard about all the Nicoletti-Wildman-Of Nine drama?” He’s smiling and furrowing his brow in thought, saying playfully,

“I have, actually. But there was an additional name attached to that mess, and it was Torres. And there was decidedly no skinny-dipping involved.” She rolls her eyes, says,

“What’s the version you’ve heard?”

“It’s all been incomprehensible bits and pieces. Something about a bet between you and Nicoletti about who could seduce Wildman first. You and Wildman making out in the aeroponics bay. A dramatic confrontation between you and also-Wildman-smitten Seven in the corridor outside Engineering.” He takes a drink and laughs and continues, “Look, I like Sam as much as the next guy. She’s very easy to like and easy on the eyes, too, but I just have trouble contextualizing her as such a femme fatale. I didn’t believe two words of any it until your crummy boxing this afternoon, and then I got to thinking ‘well maybe…’”

“Oh please. You know damn good and well Samantha Wildman is not my type.”

“Way too nice for you,” he says, laughing. But then his face is suddenly serious. “But you never know. Out here in hell’s half acre, anything can happen.”

Before she can respond to that, B’Elanna’s commbadge chirps:

“Janeway to Torres.”

“Go ahead,” B’Elanna says.

“Busy?” Janeway’s voice says.

“Having dinner with Chakotay.” There’s a pause that’s a hair longer than it would be if she were interested in just dinner, and of course B’Elanna can see Chakotay’s face register that pause. Janeway says,

“Oh. Well. That answers that. I’ll leave you to it. If you’re interested in a nightcap later, give me a call. Janeway out.”

B’Elanna and Chakotay are left staring at each other in the greasy silence of the shitty falafel place. B’Elanna hadn’t associated them before, but now that she’s looking straight at him, knowing he’s looking straight at her and seeing something he’d rather not see, she realizes part of the reason she’d been so unsettled when Seven had confronted her in her office is that Chakotay and Seven have the same tell. He’s got his jaw clenched and there’s a muscle jumping there. B’Elanna knows first-hand that if he were really mad, his temple would jump, too. But the jaw is bad enough. The thump of her blood pumping in her ears is loud but not so loud that she can’t hear him say,

“Well. That answers that.” He folds the styrofoam plate his falafel had been served on in half very carefully.

“Chakotay. It’s not—” But what’s she planning on saying? That it’s not what he thinks? It is what he thinks. That it’s not serious? It is probably pretty serious. It’s not about him? Well, it isn’t, but that’s kind of a callous thing to say.

“Don’t. Please, B’Elanna. Just don’t,” he says. He stands slowly and pushes in his chair. He says, “Computer. End program.”

He shoots her a look that’s sad and hurt and sparking with a tinge of anger but is not overall malevolent and exits the holodeck.

B’Elanna’s alone on the grid in her boxing clothes. If only she had that alternate Janeway to talk to about all this. Or maybe even the alternate Chakotay. She really ought to invest more in intimate friends. She’s never been great at that, is always waiting for her chosen person to betray her or find somebody better or both. Her dad had been her safe person and then he’d left. And a bruisingly similar pattern had occurred over and over throughout her life, leading to progressively less being entrusted to the successive allegedly safe persons. It’d taken her a long time to admit that she relies on Chakotay’s friendship in a way she hasn’t allowed herself probably ever. The jury’s still out on Janeway in some regards, but she’s witnessed that insane woman on too many suicide missions not to believe she wouldn’t do anything for any one of her crew members, and B’Elanna is one of them, so at least there’s that.

But now she’s on this relatively small spacecraft for the foreseeable future, and she’s established herself in a way she hasn’t ever really before—she’s responsible for more than just herself. There’s a permanence here that is both comforting and maddening. She has to be with these people for the rest of her life. She gets to be with these people for the rest of her life. It would behoove her to make her life a real, abundant life instead of the tentative, scared, angry, volatile, haphazard thing it’s always been. A good start would be to learn to trust people who are trustworthy without holding them to some crazy standard of “would this person literally die for me and have I seen them try with my own two eyes” which when it boils down to it, is the reason Chakotay and Janeway are her top two trusted individuals. Chakotay had saved her life the very first day they’d met, after all.

It’s a completely unreasonable standard, and she doesn’t really actively, consciously think about that as something to measure a friend by. She figures most people in the course of a regular life don’t have even one of those types of people, let alone two. Let alone how many others there might be on this tin can with all the trauma bonding and forced familiarity. If she hadn’t had the good fortune to get stranded with so many genuinely quality people, how long would it have been before they’d all devolved into mutiny and chaos and murder? Or had they all been quality before? Was it the adversity that had shaped them, or had they shaped the adversity?

That’s another reason she needs somebody to talk to about difficult subjects who isn’t Chakotay or Janeway. They’re both philosophers at heart, and it’s rubbing off.

But as much as she wants a chance to get her thoughts organized and unburden herself a little with a neutral third party, or fourth party as it were, Janeway probably deserves to be the first to be apprised of this new development.

There’s the off chance that some crewman will be in turbolift maintenance or torpedo loading maintenance, but other than that, Deck 3’s pretty safe for stealth, seeing as how everyone who lives there already knows.

So they’re sitting at opposite ends of the divan, Janeway in loose linen civvies and B’Elanna still in her sweat-soaked ribbed a-shirt and red rayon shorts and white tennies. Janeway’s nursing a coffee, and B’Elanna’s glugged down half an electrolyte sports drink. She’s just told Janeway about what had happened with Chakotay, and Janeway is staring into her cup with sad eyes. Finally, Janeway looks up, hums, says,

“You know what the worst part is?”

“What?” B’Elanna says. Her arm’s draped over the back of the couch, and Janeway places her hand on it.

“I was calling to ask you to dinner because I wanted to discuss telling him. However we decide to proceed, it’s going to affect him both emotionally because of his personal relationship with both of us and professionally because he’s in charge of personnel. I guess I was hoisted by my own petard.”

B’Elanna sighs, says,

“I’d rather knock my own front teeth out with a sonic driver than hurt that honorable man, but he’s really too romantic for his own good. Once he’s not so upset, you can talk to him, and it’ll be fine.”

“And why would I be the one to talk to him?”

“He’ll take it better from you.”

“No he won’t. He’ll take it the same or perhaps even worse but pretend to take it better from me to preserve his dignity.”

“Same difference,” B’Elanna says.

“You’re scared.”

“Of course I am. For me, disappointing him is almost as bad as disappointing you. I’ll say all the wrong things in the wrong ways. You never say wrong shit. So even though he’ll take it the same or perhaps even worse from you, at least you won’t accidentally offend him with stupid extra stuff.”

Janeway scratches her nails lightly up and down B’Elanna’s forearm, shakes her head, says,

“Fine. I’ll do that dirty work for us when the time comes. But you’re going to have to have your own conversation with him at some point, you do realize.”

“Oh no doubt. But you should go first.” B’Elanna chugs the last of her sports drink and gets up to put the bottle in the recycler, and then she sits on the floor to do some stretches. She starts with a nice, easy butterfly. She says,

“So what did you do with your free afternoon?”

“Seven and I were going to put in a few reps of velocity so we’d be more prepared for Tuesday—”

“Oh shoot. That’s a good idea. Wildman and I ought to do the same. We’ve never even played each other, let alone together.”

“I wasn’t finished. We were going to play velocity, but.” She gives B’Elanna a significant look. “We never quite got around to it. She wanted to have a little chat about the nature of romance and sex.”

“Oh yikes.” B’Elanna remembers their confrontation outside of engineering and wonders what kinds of probes Seven sent out, what Janeway had revealed in the interest of helping Seven with her burgeoning humanity. B’Elanna stays seated on the floor and goes into eagle pose.

“Yikes indeed. It started off innocent and regular and generic enough: how does one know one would like to copulate with another?; what is the appropriate amount of time between acknowledging attraction and acting on attraction? But then it kind of took a turn: how does a couple decide on whose quarters is a better location for intimacy?; is an attempt at total secrecy about the relationship beneficial?; if one is overtaken by ardor in a public location, is it better to be expeditious and indulge immediately or to be circumspect and remove to a more private area?; on the morning after a sexual encounter, would one reasonably be thinking about engineering tools one had lost weeks ago rather than the steps required for a repetition of sexual congress?”

B’Elanna looks up from where she’s moving through cat-cow, says,

“This Borg petaQ!”

“Hmm yes. It got even weirder from there,” Janeway says. “By then I was suspicious but still answering as truthfully as I could without giving too much away. But she’d already perceived that I was attempting to obfuscate a little and so, having very skillfully cornered me conversationally, asked me point blank what I looked for in a partner and whether I’d encountered anyone onboard who ‘ticked my boxes.’”

B’Elanna transitions from cow pose to dolphin plank, says,

“And what’d you say to that?”

“Well, at that point I had three options: I could deny and be flustered; I could concede and disclose; or, I could flirt my way out.”

B’Elanna, still planking, laughs although the action hurts her overtaxed abs and lats, says,

“And of course you flirted your way out.” She lets herself collapse onto the floor on her belly and then says, “Let me guess. You said something like, ‘I don’t let just anyone tick my box.’”

Janeway laughs, says,

“Worse than that. I don’t know what came over me. Maybe it was a defense mechanism, or maybe I am just really that much of an asshole deep down. I acted as though I didn’t have any idea that she was trying to do some kind of sleuthing and listed off all these characteristics that were exactly Seven’s personality and heavily implied that I’d found someone but that I considered that someone unattainable. The look on her face I swear. I might’ve gone too far.”

B’Elanna’s still lying prone on the floor and looking up at Janeway. She says,

“Oof. That’s cold, babe. But also it’s so strategic. I like that in a woman.”

“And what else do you like in a woman?” Janeway says, voice husky and low suddenly.

“Depends on the woman,” B’Elanna says as she sits up on her knees and parts Janeway’s thighs with sure hands at that ticklish place just above patellas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like Chakotay a lot, actually. It’s just that I like B’Elanna better. Still, I didn’t want to do him too dirty or characterize him as a bad guy.


	9. Chapter 9

B’Elanna hadn’t stayed the night this time. She’d been tempted because it’s a tempting prospect objectively to wake up naked and sated in the arms of a beautiful woman. It hadn’t helped that Janeway had asked her to do so in that sexy, gravelly timbre half asleep and half wrapped around her.

Alas, B’Elanna had committed at least a week ago to go to brunch with a bunch of people Sunday morning, and Nicoletti’s supposed to walk her to the mess hall. And with all the rumors going around, she wouldn’t put it past Nicoletti to show up early to try to catch her in something. So B’Elanna had kissed Janeway’s temple and had programmed her replicator to make her a Swedish coffee at precisely 9:30 am and had slipped out around three to stumble through the Jefferies tubes to Deck 4 to take the turbolift from there the rest of the way to her own quarters.

At about the same time Janeway’s replicator is whipping up her surprise coffee, B’Elanna’s just signed off from her conversation with Samantha Wildman about putting in a little velocity practice this evening. She’d figured Wildman would be at brunch, but she hadn’t wanted to leave the discussion for later. Big groups or even small groups of Voyager personnel often invite abrupt and multitudinous subject changes. So better safe than sorry. And now, Nicoletti’s pressing B’Elanna’s door chime a good twenty minutes early and saying, 

“Knock, knock, Chief. Are you decent? Are any guests you might have decent?”

B’Elanna meets her at the door. She’s just put her jacket on but hasn’t zipped it yet. They’re both in uniform because they’ve both got Beta shift later that day. B’Elanna says,

“I don’t know what you think you know, Nicoletti, but I don’t have any guests. Would you like to do a full sweep of the premises?”

“I’m not sure I’m ready to show my hand just yet, but I’ll take your word for it on that, at least.” She snakes her fingers under one edge of the jacket and tugs teasingly to stop B’Elanna from zipping, continues, “I would, however, like to do a hickey search.”

“Oh get fucked, Nicoletti,” she says, wrenching the zipper up.

“Is that an offer, Torres? You’re not my usual type, but I could make an exception.” B’Elanna rolls her eyes and pushes Nicoletti farther into the corridor. 

“Don’t you have anything better to do than try to razz me?” B’Elanna says. They turn the corner and head toward Harry Kim’s quarters, as he’s the next one they’re going to pick up.

“Oh I’ve got plenty of better things to do,” Nicoletti says, “but that doesn’t mean that razzing you isn’t also an activity I find worthwhile.”

“Well. That’s reasonable, I guess.”

“You’re gonna give up that easily?”

“Sometimes the house takes a strategic loss.” Nicoletti laughs, says,

“What makes you think you’re the house in this scenario?”

“Two things: It was a good line, and somebody’s gotta be.”

“That’s reasonable, I guess,” Nicoletti says with a wink as she rings Harry’s door chime. He appears immediately in his skintight Parrises squares jumpsuit, the top unzipped and hanging down, his face scrunched up. He says,

“I thought we were supposed to meet at 10…? I still need to shower and change.”

“Sorry. Didn’t realize you’d had prior engagements,” Nicoletti says. “We’ll just meet you there, then?”

“What? You’re not gonna ask Harry whether he’s got any indecent guests?” B’Elanna says.

“I’m not actually interested, but I guess I ought to do my due diligence. Harry, you got some hot piece in there?” Nicoletti says.

“Uh, no?” He says, looking at each woman in turn, a blush starting up at his cheekbones. “Is the interrogation over, or…?” B’Elanna pats his shoulder, says,

“Didn’t mean to drag you into anything, Starfleet. Get a shower in, and we’ll—” but just then, a voice from the interior:

“Harry? What’s taking you so long?” Nicoletti and B’Elanna share a look. Harry’s blush is all the way up to his hairline. He says,

“You said you weren’t interested. No take backs.” He presses the button on his side of the threshold, and B’Elanna just retrieves her hand as the door shuts.

“Well, well, well,” Nicoletti says as they move on toward Joe Carey’s. “Who do you think that was?”

“I’m not sure if I’m up for much speculation.”

“Oh? Since you’ve moved into a glass house you’ve pawned all your throwing stones?”

“I’m not admitting to having moved into a glass house. But fundamentally as a person, I don’t like to throw anything that doesn’t count, stones included.”

Nicoletti stops walking so she can put her hand on her hip and stare off at a bulkhead for a second before she says,

“I’m trying to unpack the actual logic behind the nonsense you just said to me. I’m setting aside the ‘glass house’ thing for a second and focusing on the ‘throwing’ and ‘counting’ parts. The ‘throwing’ part tracks. You do throw a lot of things, and I’ve seen that look in your eyes right before you do it where you know exactly what you expect to gain from it and you don’t care whether you have to go to the brig for it. But the thing that’s got me thinking is… What makes something count to you? I know you care about Harry. So why wouldn’t you want to speculate about his mystery lover? Is it because you care about him that you don’t want to speculate? Or is it that you’re not interested because you know there’s very little chance that the person in his quarters would be involved in any of your rumor spheres?”

“Would you like to hop over to a conference room so that you can work out your thoughts on a white board? Draw some Venn diagrams in real-time as you’re thinking it through? Maybe we could get some crew members together so that you could put together a dramatic recreation?” B’Elanna says, choosing to be flip so that she won’t get mad.

“Well excuse me for trying to be contemplative,” Nicoletti says, clipped and looking straight into B’Elanna.

“You’re excused. Now, let’s go get Carey so I can eat my weight in pancakes.”

“You’re being so weird. What is up with you?”

“Nothing! I just don’t know why everything has to be all gossip all the time! Why can’t we ever talk about anything else?”

“Permission to be contemplative again?” B’Elanna rolls her eyes, says,

“Granted.”

“We don’t have any news or weather or sports or new books or new music. If we want to talk about anything new at all, it’s gossip. So.”

“So.” B’Elanna pauses, concedes, “It sounded like Jenny Delaney to me.” Nicoletti laughs, says,

“Me, too. Although I always got the impression he preferred Megan.”

“Out here in hell’s half acre, anything can happen,” B’Elanna says before she can think where that phrase had come from. Chakotay’s words taste bad in her mouth. 

But there’s Joe Carey in a pair of fisher stripe coveralls with a big goofy grin, and she feels better at the thought of whatever stupid thing he’s dressed to do later. As they take the turbolift to Deck 2, he tells them all about the convertible he and Tom are going to be working on.

The mess hall’s done up like an old Vegas casino buffet, all neon and faux marble and Doric pillars, just all gaudy and tacky and too much. B’Elanna’s never been to a Vegas casino buffet, but she had been tending to a bio-neural gel pack in the mess hall when Neelix had discovered a bunch of old Vegas holovids as he’d been looking for a recipe and had called her over to look at them with him at his console extra excitedly. Everything about Vegas had appealed to Neelix, but B’Elanna had been transfixed by the buffet—the crab legs in particular. They’d struck her as an oddly Klingon dish for twentieth century earth—of course, she’d thought they’d been alive when she’d first seen them, and the whole thing had made more sense when she’d figured out they’d been steamed. Still, she’s excited to see what’s made it to the buffet this morning.

Nicoletti and Carey and B’Elanna find their respective spots at the big middle table where they’re all supposed to meet for this morning’s brunch and survey the scene: Tom Paris, also in fisher stripe coveralls, is already there. Deb Lang is also already there, in a cutoff t-shirt and tight, faded jeans. And there’s Zack Murphy in his science blues. And Jenny Delaney—and next to her Megan—both in colorful caftans, not matching exactly but not not matching. (So Harry’s mystery guest hadn’t been a Delaney, after all. A continuing mystery.)

B’Elanna grabs an empty plate from the stack at the end of the buffet row and starts walking the aisles. She piles and piles: sausage and bacon and scrambled eggs and aeroponics-fresh berries and pancakes and cheesy hash brown casserole. There are no crab legs, but she figures that’s because they’re not so much a brunch item as a supper item. She’ll have to request them special sometime. Maybe they could put together a terrarium or aquarium or solarium or whatever so they could farm real snow crabs instead of just replicating them or making do with strange new crustaceans. Of course, where would they get the Adam and Eve real snow crabs? Anyway, when she returns to her seat at the table with her overloaded buffet plate, there are more people present—Renlay Sharr and Pablo Baytart and Dwight Culhane. But also, Samantha Wildman is now here and in between her seat and B’Elanna’s is Seven of Nine.

Paris takes a drink from his glass of orange—or a weird Delta Quadrant fruit that is almost an orange—juice and says,

“Neelix has really outdone himself this time.”

“Hasn’t he just!” Sharr says.

“The only thing that’s missing are the mimosas,” Murphy says. Baytart elbows him in the ribs, says,

“You’re on Beta today. You can’t have alcohol this morning, jerkwad.”

“And anyway that’s not all that’s missing. Where are the slot machines?” Sharr says.

Meanwhile, B’Elanna’s focused on her plate, working through it gradually, not really listening to what’s going on around her. Lang, across the table from her, taps her butter knife on the edge of B’Elanna’s plate to get her attention, says,

“Hey Chief. I bet I can eat more plates than you.” 

“Unless you’ve got a hollow leg, you’re gonna lose that bet, Ensign.”

“I’ll take my chances,” Lang says, eyes dancing a little. “Five replicator rations?”

“Make it ten, and I’m in.”

“Gotta make it worth your while. It’s a bet,” Lang says. They reach across the table to shake on it.

Another trip, this time with various gelatin salads featuring a lot of marshmallows, shrimp cocktail—if shrimp why not crab? she thinks—ham steak, cheesy leola root casserole. She’s concentrating on her second plate and is letting the gossip around her recede into white noise, letting the tastes and textures from the buffet’s offerings hit her in waves. That is, until Seven has returned to sitting next to her—a solitary hard boiled egg and a solitary crepe dressed up with a compote made of an unidentifiable but certainly Delta Quadrant berry on her plate. She can feel Seven’s penetrating Borg eyes on her.

So she turns to stare back. She takes in Seven’s whole deal and tries to figure out what’s happening there under that blank facade. Is this the Seven who wants to engage in a battle of wits? Or is this the Seven asking the Captain weird questions? Is this the Seven who thinks Janeway is fucking B’Elanna, or is this the Seven who thinks Janeway wants to fuck Seven but has decided she can’t? Hard to say. Seven’s face is always so neutral. B’Elanna knows Seven isn’t actually neutral but that she just seems neutral. If she squints just right, she might be able to ascertain a trace of concern, or maybe she’s making that up. Either way, Seven says,

“Lieutenant B’Elanna Torres. Are you functioning within acceptable parameters?” Again she wonders what the motivation might be behind that question and decides to be as neutral as possible, as well:

“Sure, I guess. Thanks for asking. You?”

“I am… conflicted,” Seven says.

“Is that so? Would you like to talk about… whatever it is you’re conflicted about?”

“I would like to talk to you, but I am uncertain about how I should approach the topic because I do not know if the information I have is completely factual.” B’Elanna laughs, and she can’t tell whether she’s tickled more by Seven’s earnestness or by the idea of Seven trading grapevine scandals.

“Never stopped anybody else,” B’Elanna says.

“I am not anybody else,” Seven says.

“Ain’t that the truth.” She looks at Seven a little more closely. That muscle in her jaw isn’t jumping, so it can’t be that serious. “Just go ahead and lay it out for me.”

Seven, with her back still completely straight, scoots her chair a little closer and lowers her voice, says,

“You have romantic feelings for Captain Janeway.” Oh no. This is about that talk they’d had in the hallway outside Engineering. Or more likely Janeway’s little ruse. Or perhaps somehow both.

“I’m not saying I do, but if I did, what’s that got to do with anything?” B’Elanna says.

“Evidence I have recently received suggests that Captain Janeway may not reciprocate those feelings. I am… sorry.” B’Elanna has to bite her lip so that she doesn’t laugh out loud or say something like, “She must be a damn good actress,” or even worse, “Funny, she didn’t mention anything like that when she had her head between my legs last night.” She somehow summons the strength to school her face and to say instead,

“Well. You win some, you lose some.” But Seven is still hovering over her confidentially. She quirks an eyebrow and says,

“You are not upset?”

“Whole lotta fish in the sea, Seven.” Seven seems to consider this for a moment and then,

“There is an additional element, and I feel it is my duty to tell you, in the interest of good sportsmanship, that the integrity of our velocity game may be compromised. While I have never known Captain Janeway to allow her emotions to negatively impact her velocity performance, I have never played a doubles match with her in which the other parties involved were, respectively, a woman who harbors unrequited feelings for her, a woman she harbors unrequited feelings for, and the woman the woman she is interested in is interested in. It could prove an especially challenging situation, and I believe you have the right to know and prepare yourself accordingly.” It’s really quite thoughtful and kind of sweet that Seven’s sharing this erroneous intel. But still, B’Elanna can’t help herself but to be the biggest asshole she can be and says:

“Janeway wants to bone Wildman?!” Aha! There’s the jumping muscle in Seven’s clenched jaw. Seven dips her head slightly, says,

“No, Lieutenant Torres.” B’Elanna makes a big show of “getting it.”

“Oh,” B’Elanna says calculatedly conspicuously glumly after what she deems an appropriate amount of time going through the motions of the appearance of external processing. Seven places a stiff hand on her shoulder and says,

“Logically, I know that my actions have not directly affected you as I have been unaware of my effect on Captain Janeway until recently and therefore I am not responsible for any distress you might be experiencing because of both the matter itself and my candidness about the matter, but I feel responsible regardless. I apologize for any disappointment or discomfort this knowledge might cause you.”

“I appreciate that,” B’Elanna manages to say. She’s got to get out of here before she loses her composure. She takes a deep breath, says, “So what about our battle of wits? Is that over, then?”

“Yes, I think so,” Seven says solemnly. “I now believe I had been mistaken when I had confronted you previously.”

“Oh. Well. Thank you for your honesty,” B’Elanna says. It’s all too ridiculous. She feels a little bad about the deception of it all, but she guesses that’s just how the dice roll sometimes. Regardless, if she doesn’t leave the mess hall soon she fears she won’t be able to control herself. She looks over to find Lang watching her with a self-satisfied leer. BaQa’. Ten replicator rations are a small price to pay to subvert Seven, but on principle, she hates to lose, and the fact is she could put away at least another buffet plate and a half. She juggles her options for a second and then decides that she can do this. She can keep it together by powering through another plate or two and all the while looking as though she’s eating her feelings: two birds with one stone. Yes, that’s a good plan. But a flash of red and black at the mess hall doors behind Lang’s shoulder catches her eye. 

It’s Janeway. She appears to be dressed for that small town ‘50s program where Paris and Carey will be messing around with the convertible this afternoon. Janeway is widely known to love a good old combustion engine, and in fact if B’Elanna recalls correctly, she’d had a hand in the restoration of the pick-up. But Janeway’s dressed to drive a convertible, not to work on one. B’Elanna had allowed herself to imagine Janeway in that program in a shirt dress, but what Janeway’s picked is better—a black v-neck sweater and a tight black pencil skirt and a wide red vinyl belt that matches both her four-inch red leather pumps and a red silk scarf tied in a jaunty knot at the left side of her neck. And the cherry on top, of course, is a black leather jacket—a very specific leather jacket that had been carelessly discarded in Janeway’s quarters a few nights ago. It’s a very good look, but also, B’Elanna thinks, a reckless choice. B’Elanna’s been seen in that exact leather jacket in at least three different holoprograms on many separate occasions by a wide assortment of crew members. Surely someone other than she will notice.

Seven’s at the buffet line with her head cocked inquisitively toward the Belgian waffle maker, Wildman standing next to her with her hand on Seven’s forearm, gesturing at the machine with her other hand as she speaks close to Seven’s ear. Janeway makes a beeline for Seven’s vacated seat. She leans on the back of it on her forearms. She says, low and sexy,

“This seat taken?” B’Elanna pries her eyes away from the v-neck and the supple freckled flesh revealed there, says,

“Sorry, Captain. Occupied.”

“Well, we all like to be cozy in this sardine can,” Janeway says as she turns smoothly on her stiletto and swipes a chair from the table behind them, wedges it between B’Elanna’s and Seven’s. She lowers herself elegantly and throws her arm over the back of B’Elanna’s chair, whispers, “Thanks for the coffee, by the way. How did you know Swedish is my favorite?” B’Elanna takes a cautious look around, makes sure no one’s paying attention to them, whispers back,

“I hate to shatter any romantic illusions you may have about me, but it’s been my experience that it's every black coffee drinker’s favorite. I made an educated guess.” Janeway slides her tongue over her top teeth, says,

“An educated guess is better to me than a bouquet of roses.”

“But not better than a bouquet of sunflowers, I’d bet. You always have a vase of those in your ready room.” Janeway laughs, says,

“So you do catalogue my preferences, after all.” B’Elanna leans in, is about to say something kind of dirty about paying attention to all kinds of things Janeway likes, but Seven and Wildman are back to take their former spots. They stand frozen there for a second—a beautiful bewildered blonde tableau. Until Wildman says,

“Oh hello, Captain.” Janeway turns her head languidly, says,

“Ensign Wildman. Seven. What a delight.”

Wildman sits in her chair, sets her plate down in front of her. She looks over at Seven’s spot and then farther over to where Janeway’s placed herself and farther still to B’Elanna’s chair. She says,

“A delight to be here.”

Wildman and Seven share a look. B’Elanna doesn’t dare look at Janeway or she definitely will laugh. Janeway says,

“What’s good on the buffet?”

“Oh everything but the gelatin salads, and even they’re all right if you’re into that sort of thing,” Wildman says.

“Sounds great,” Janeway says as she rises and walks toward the buffet.

Once Janeway’s gone, Wildman and Seven look at each other again and then are both looking at B’Elanna expectantly and repentantly. Seven finally sits, says across the chair now between them, 

“I do not believe Captain Janeway to be cruel. I do not entirely understand her, but I do not think she is doing what she is doing to hurt you specifically.”

“I’m really not bothered, Seven,” B’Elanna says. To her chagrin, she finds herself genuinely trying to reassure Seven that she’s ok. “I’m just going to get another plate and take it one step at a time.” Seven nods, but B’Elanna gets the feeling it’s kind of a pity nod.

Lang gestures to her from where Neelix has refreshed the French toast and pancakes and has brought out a bunch of different syrups, and he’s added a whole bagels and lox station. And now she’s starting to get actually annoyed about the crab legs. If seafood isn’t for breakfast or brunch there should either be a stricter rule about it or they should forget the rules altogether.

When B’Elanna gets back to the table, Janeway is holding a fork with an odd-looking melon cube speared on it as she chats across the table to Carey. It’s a tight squeeze between Janeway and Jenny Delaney, and as she’s apologizing for all the jostling, Delaney tugs at her sleeve for her to come even closer so they can conference. Delaney whispers,

“Since when do you and the Captain share clothes?” Is there any use in denying it? Maybe. Probably not. Janeway had done it to taunt her, gauge her reaction and her reaction to other people’s reaction, no doubt, too. So she’s going to play it cool:

“We’re friends and we’re the same size. It’s not that weird.”

“It is that weird! Well it’s not that weird if a certain set of rumors are true and it’s very weird if a certain other set of rumors are true.” B’Elanna finally does just laugh, says,

“Is there a third set of rumors I should know about, or should I be on the lookout for just the two sets?” Delaney rolls her eyes, says,

“I can’t stand you sometimes.” B’Elanna shrugs:

“Not something I haven’t heard before.” She’s about to jump in on the Carey-Janeway conversation, but there’s someone psst-ing her behind her. It’s Tom, and he’s making exaggerated eye movements cutting from B’Elanna to Janeway back to B’Elanna with his eyebrows raised in question. She makes a nix it gesture and turns back to the table. Wildman’s saying,

“It sounds like a problem with the carburetor to me. Are you guys going to be down there all day? I could maybe drop by after Beta shift and take a look at it.”

“And would that be before or after our velocity practice?” B’Elanna says.

“Oh shoot. I forgot,” Wildman says, craning her neck to give her an apologetic look.

“If you do not mind, I am also proficient with that antiquated technology and I am not scheduled for Beta shift today, so I could accompany you immediately after our meal has ended,” Seven says.

“Well sure. Sounds like fun. We can always use another set of hands,” Carey says. “Especially since the Captain’s not going to be getting hers dirty today, apparently.”

“Oh I wouldn’t bet on that,” Janeway says. “Just because I felt like looking pretty doesn’t mean I can’t still turn a wrench.”

“Far be it from me to limit you,” Carey says.

“You will also be enjoying this holoprogram this afternoon, Captain?” Seven says.

“Did you think this is just what I wear for Sunday brunch?” Janeway says.

“Far be it from me to limit you,” Seven says. Carey and Wildman and Janeway laugh, and Janeway places a hand on Seven’s forearm. B’Elanna knows that she does this to everybody and that she flirts with everybody and that any feelings she might have hinted at having for Seven are fake and had been just to put her off the scent of what’s really going on, but B’Elanna feels a little jealousy spring up anyway. Tom slides in between Carey and Lang with a plate full of another type of crustacean—little whole red ones. And between the jealousy and her mounting anger about the crab legs, B’Elanna’s about fit to be tied. She says,

“Now what in hell are those?!”

“Crawdads?” Tom says. He twists the tail off one, and she’s seething, and he sees that she’s seething, and he says, “Do you want one?” She takes a drink of her coffee, takes a breath, says,

“No, thank you. I think I’m about done.”

“And only four plates?” Lang says, grabbing one of the crawfish.

“Yeah. You?” 

“Me, too,” Lang says. She looks at the thing in her hand and then sets it gently back on Tom’s plate. “Call it a draw?”

“I can live with that,” B’Elanna says. She makes to stand, but Janeway’s hand is now on her forearm instead of Seven’s and that feels much better to her. Janeway’s got a little sparkle in her eye, and she’s saying,

“I wanted to have a word with you privately before your shift. About the dilithium.”

Just off the mess there’s a storage room that Neelix has converted into a secondary pantry for nonperishables in case of emergencies. Of course once they’re in there, B’Elanna is proved right about her suspicions about that sparkle. It’s not a frenzied make out, just a nice, languid make out and then B’Elanna says,

“Two things. One, this jacket looks better on you. Two, you are definitely going to lose this bet.”

“You’re right on the first point. And on the second, I’m not going to admit defeat, but I will confess that I rummaged around this morning to find my sewing kit for any name-stitching that might present itself in the next few days.” B’Elanna laughs and kisses her again. She then opens the leather jacket and digs in the inside pocket for the monogrammed cotton handkerchief she keeps in there and first wipes Janeway’s lipstick off herself and then fixes Janeway’s up, too.


	10. Chapter 10

Vorik nods once and accepts the PADD B’Elanna’s passing him, and B’Elanna gets distracted mid-shift-report as out of the corner of her eye she catches Tom standing right inside the Engineering doorway in a cut-off hoodie and basketball shorts, bouncing on his toes and whistling. That’s the pose he does when he’s trying to look casual when he’s actually bursting to tell you something. She rolls out her shoulders and refocuses on telling Vorik what he’ll need to know for Gamma shift, which is admittedly not a whole heck of a lot.

Tom’s halfway across to her console before she even logs off.

“Hurry it up, Torres. I’ve got a lot to brief you on and not a lot of time to do it.”

“Keep your pants on, Paris.” She signs a few more electronic documents and then logs off, starts unzipping her jacket as Tom grabs her arm and drags her toward the door. Once past the threshold, he begins:

“Ok, so. Sam was right about the problem being the carburetor. Well the primary problem was the carburetor, anyway. There was also an issue with the radiator fan belt, but that was a separate, secondary thing. And of course the battery terminal connectors.” She jerks out of his grip, turns to face him, says pointedly,

“How were the spark plugs, Tom? What about the windshield latches for the ragtop? Are those in good condition?”

“Sorry. I’ll try to stay on message.”

“I was beginning to think that was the message.”

“And that’s my bad. The car is irrelevant. Well not completely irrelevant. It does play quite a role. Especially the battery.”

She gives him the “go on” gesture. And he says again,

“Ok, so.” He looks to be organizing his thoughts. She gives him the “go on” gesture again, more aggressively this time. He shakes his head, says,

“Maybe I ought to start at the beginning.”

“Starting anywhere would be good,” B’Elanna says.

“So it’s me and Carey in this oversized antique garage with a bunch of big red metal tool boxes and a record player and a fridge with a couple thirty packs in it. We’re standing around drinking a couple of beers and listening to some old country-western music as we discuss our plan for the day, and in comes the Captain, very much still wearing what is obviously your leather jacket.” He shoots her a quick squinty glance but keeps on, “She’d been messing around in another part of the program. Not sure what she had been up to exactly, but she’s all keyed up when she gets to the garage. You know how Janeway gets when she’s excited about something.” She gets giddy and even more affable and flirtatious, the kind of woman who’s never bought her own drink at a bar once in her life.

“Yeah, I know how Janeway gets when she’s excited about something,” B’Elanna says, knowing he won’t get on with it without some signs of active listening and engagement. He side eyes her and smirks but continues,

“So she grabs a can of beer. I’d really pegged her for being too discerning to deign to drink canned beer. Like if she were to drink beer at all, it’d be out of a glass bottle or maybe from a tap. But I know much better now just how regular she is.”

“Kahless, Tom. Does this story have a point, or…?”

“Yes. I’m setting a scene. Patience, dude, patience.”

They step into the turbolift, and he resumes:

“So we’re all drinking beer and dicking around and poking at stuff under the hood and trading jabs, and she’s got herself propped up on the console record player, thumbing through the records in the built-in recessed little slot that houses maybe a half dozen or so of them, her tight skirt riding up—”

“Setting a scene. I get it,” B’Elanna says.

The turbolift whooshes open, and they exit on Deck 9.

“And in walks Seven of Nine.” He pauses. When he pauses in stories like this, she knows she’s expected to say something, but what he’s just said seems like such a neutral thing to her that she’s not sure what he wants her to say about it.

“And in walks Seven of Nine,” she repeats coaxingly. He’s satisfied enough by that:

“And she just stands there at the walk-in door, looking at all of us in turn. I’m taken aback because she’s shown up in the first place—Joe had told me she’d mentioned it but I hadn’t really expected her—and then in the second place that she’s dressed for the occasion. Like a real greaser—white t-shirt with the sleeves rolled up and jeans and motorcycle boots, her hair in an immaculately pomaded pompadour. You’d have been impressed. And then she says, ‘Is it required to drink beer for this activity or merely traditional?’” Tom also does a pretty decent Seven, but it’s not as good as Janeway’s. “And Joe and I don’t really know her well enough to know what to say to that, but Janeway laughs. You know that laugh she does when she’s really tickled, where she throws her head back.” Yes, she knows that laugh, and as she’s waiting for her door to recognize her to admit them to her quarters, she pictures the exact play of muscle and sinew at Janeway’s neck when she laughs like that. She feels a little tinge of jealousy that Seven had incited that reaction from her.

They walk into B’Elanna’s quarters, and B’Elanna goes directly to her bedroom. She knows Tom knows the drill. He leans against the side table in the living room that’s butted up against B’Elanna’s bedroom wall as she changes into her velocity clothes. His voice is just loud enough to penetrate the bedroom wall but not so loud as to penetrate any other walls:

“So Janeway says, ‘Merely traditional, but fun nonetheless.’” Tom’s Janeway is much better than his Seven. But of course he’s had more practice at that one. “And she sashays over to Seven and pops the top of a beer for her, hands it to her. And Seven says, ‘I don’t believe my cortical node is able to process this.’ And Janeway says, ‘What a shame.’ And Janeway chugs the beer! Under ten seconds! You’d have been impressed.” B’Elanna wonders at this second declaration. He’d said it the once and it hadn’t registered. But now she thinks she probably would’ve been impressed indeed. By both things he had suggested she'd be impressed by.

“By this time,” Tom says, “Joe and I are ready to get down to business with the convertible.” B’Elanna’s tying her athletic shoes, and Tom’s saying across the wall, “And Seven’s always ready to get down to business. So the three of us are tinkering and postulating, and Janeway’s had a little more to drink than the rest of us and has put on a Barbara Mandrell record. I don’t know if you know too much about old country-western music, but Barabara Mandrell was a sexy alto who sang a lot of cheating songs.” She does know that. Her mother, who had always been so wary of Earth things especially after B’Elanna’s father had left them, had always had a soft spot for Earth’s country-western music recorded by passionate women.

She looks at the chronometer on the wall. She’s got another fifteen minutes before her velocity practice with Wildman. She walks out into the living room and plops onto the divan. She makes eye contact with Tom, who takes the hint and also plops onto the divan, and then she says,

“I do love a good cheating song. Although Barbara Mandrell was popular in like the ‘80s. What were her records doing in that program?” Tom shrugs:

“You’ll have to take that up with Harry. He handles the music. And speaking of Harry, that’s when he arrives, and Janeway’s very excited about that development because Harry is her preferred dance partner and that’s why she’s put on the record in the first place. I don’t know who she had been originally planning to rope into two-stepping with her.” Hmm probably Seven, to tease her, B’Elanna thinks. “So Harry and the Captain are dancing, and I’m looking in a toolbox for a long enough screwdriver to use as leverage to get that radiator fan belt out, and I hear a ruckus. I run to the front of the car and Joe’s standing there just saying ‘holy shit’ over and over, and Seven’s on the floor with blood pouring out of her wrist. I don’t know exactly what happened. It was something where one of her Borg implants made contact with one of the battery terminals and shocked her, which triggered a whole chain reaction where she bounced into Joe and Joe was holding a knife because he was about to pry a rusted washer loose with it. And anyway it’s messy. Janeway runs over, sees the cut is bad and unties her neck scarf so she can use it as a tourniquet. She and Seven site-to-site to sickbay and the rest of us run there. When we’re all together around Seven’s biobed, the Doctor’s got the blood flow stanched and is reconnecting some tendons and so we’re all breathing a little easier and it’s then that we all pretty much at the same time realize that scarf hadn’t been just an era-appropriate fashion accessory.” He pauses, grinning and clicking his tongue. B’Elanna can feel her face heating in anticipation of the big reveal. She says,

“Oh? What was it other than a fashion accessory?” He laughs.

“Oh I think you can guess, but I’m gonna spell it out: The Captain has a giant hickey. Like truly impressive, a few teeth marks and everything.” Well fuck. She pinches her thigh surreptitiously to try to redirect her body’s reaction. He continues, “So we’re all just standing there, staring at her. Except for Seven, because she’s seated, but she is also staring. The Doctor has finished by this time and is staring, too, and Janeway’s standing there confused. She says, ‘What? Do I have blood on my face or something?’ And Joe says, ‘Or something.’ And Harry’s now looking at the floor, his face so red, and I’m about to lose it. And Seven says, ‘It appears you are damaged, Captain.’ And the Doctor’s got this really judgy look on his face and is saying, ‘Well. Next patient.’ And the Captain—” He pauses again but this one isn’t for B’Elanna’s input; it’s because he’s laughing too hard. “The Captain still hasn’t put it together. I’m guessing Seven’s not familiar with hickeys because she’s got her face all scrunched in concern, and she says, ‘What has caused this injury on your neck, Captain?’ And Janeway finally gets it and says, ‘Oh fuck.’ And I can’t contain myself anymore, and I say, ‘Well, that does about sum it up.’ And she shoots me a death glare, but it doesn’t have as much effect as it might when she’s blushing about having a hickey and having several of her subordinates see it. And Seven looks at me and says, ‘Are you implying that this injury was sustained during intercourse?’” 

B’Elanna is still mortified, but she’s also laughing. Tom takes a breath and continues,

“And I say, ‘Probably before but I’d hate to presume too much.’” They both laugh at that one and then he’s back to talking, “Janeway’s got her fingers to her temples. You know how she gets when she’s on the brink. And she says, ‘Ok. Enough.’ And I know I’ve probably gone a little too far with it. But Seven isn’t satisfied. She looks genuinely worried. She stands from the biobed and puffs herself up and says, ‘You have engaged in sexual activity with someone who has caused you harm. Did this individual coerce you in some way? I do not see why Ensign Paris is treating this so lightly. This individual should be punished. We should alert Lieutenant Commander Tuvok immediately. Do you have other injuries that you are hiding?’ Joe and Harry are exchanging the most awkward looks and then looking at me like I’m supposed to be the one to explain this situation. But I’m looking at Janeway. Her hickey, her difficult conversation.” At this point B’Elanna has stopped laughing and is pinching her thigh harder, burning with second-hand embarrassment.

“And Janeway sighs her most put-upon sigh and says, ‘It’s not exactly an injury. I was not coerced and I’m not in any danger. Your concern is touching, but it’s nothing like what you’re thinking.’ And Seven says, ‘What is it like, then?’ And Janeway says, ‘That’s a discussion we should probably have privately.’ And Seven gets all defiant and self-righteous and says, ‘I do not see why. Everyone in this room already seems to know the nature of this… contusion. Perhaps they could provide additional insight.’ And that’s what breaks Harry. He throws his hands up and says, ‘It’s a hickey, Seven. They happen sometimes when you get too into it.’ The Doctor then puts in his two cents: ‘Other crew members typically eliminate them with a dermal regenerator before appearing in public.’ And that’s what breaks Janeway. She throws her hands up and says, ‘Oh for heaven’s sake! Excuse me for living!’ She reaches over and grabs the dermal regenerator from the tray and starts running it over her neck as she’s saying, ‘Two things: this doesn’t leave this room, and for the record, Mr. Paris, since I know you’re thinking it, I didn’t acquire it making out in the backseat of a car.’”

“She did not say that!” B’Elanna says.

“I swear she did!” They laugh again, but Tom has more: “So then she leaves, and that’s when the speculation starts up.” He waggles his eyebrows, and she groans. “It’s Seven who begins. She says, ‘I am confused about many details, but I am most confused about what individual the Captain has been copulating with.’ Joe and Harry and I are all looking at each other, and I know we’re all thinking the same thing or at least approximately the same thing. We’ve all seen you in that leather jacket. And the Doctor says, ‘I have already analyzed the tooth marks in the hickey and know exactly who the individual is, but it would be a violation of medical ethics to disclose that information. I apologize, Seven.’ Harry says, ‘Uh… I probably ought to go. I need to…’ but Seven zeroes in on him as the weak link who knows something he’s not telling and says simply, ‘Harry Kim.’ And he says, ‘I don’t know know, but didn’t that leather jacket look a little familiar to you?’ I tried to have your back on it. I did punch him in the arm when he said it. But it was already too late. Seven gets this look on her face that’s pure rage. She says, ‘In fact, I did see that garment on another individual in the aeroponics bay Thursday evening.’ She then turns to me and says, ‘Is it common for the Captain and Lieutenant Torres to openly lie? Or have they both been prevaricating to me specifically because they do not respect me or perhaps find it particularly amusing to deceive me?’ And I don’t know what to say to that. She’s got her jaw set and there’s this fucking frightening muscle jumping in it and there’s this murderous look in her eye, and I know there’s some history here that I’m not privy to, so I say, ‘Doesn’t sound like them to me.’ And she does that curt nod and storms out. So there’s all that for you.”

“Fucking A,” B’Elanna says.

“That was my assessment, as well,” Tom says. “But hey, at least you’re banging the Captain. That’s gotta afford you some modicum of safety…”


	11. Chapter 11

The air in Holodeck 1 is electric, pulsing. It’s literally that way as Samantha Wildman is at the wall panel, rapidly changing parameters, the photons shimmering in and out in cartwheeling iterations, as if she’s flipping through the channels on an ancient television set except they’re both inside the cathode ray tube. 

But it’s also figuratively that way. Wildman’s still in uniform, and her body is tense but also fidgety—her shoulders are tight and high, and her right leg is bouncing, and her fingers are quick and erratic at the controls, and B’Elanna, standing and watching at the entryway, can tell Wildman’s riled up. She assumes that Seven had met her at Science Lab 4 at the end of her shift and had briefed her—as Tom had done for B’Elanna—about the day’s events and that’s why Wildman’s not in athletic clothes and, more pressingly, visibly pissed off.

This isn’t the can of worms B’Elanna had anticipated for this evening—she’d naively thought she could avoid these particular repercussions tonight and maybe just rib Janeway about not healing that hickey after a good session of having blanked out entirely as she put her body to the test launching into velocity strategy by muscle memory. A work out followed by another, different, naked kind of work out.

But of course not. She puts on her big girl panties, says,

“Hi. Trying to find a better venue than just a blank holodeck?” Well, not exactly big girl panties. Big-girl-panties adjacent. She’s not running away and pretending she forgot about their appointment, after all. But she is hoping if she can pretend nothing’s wrong, nothing will be wrong.

“Nope. Just trying to calm myself down,” Wildman says. Apparently, Wildman has put on her big girl panties and is ready to confront anything needing confronting. She works the controls a final time, and the holodeck shudders into the form of the overstuffed, gilded, dripping-candles-and-roaring-fire-ar-the-stone-hearth-lit parlor of a gothic Victorian manor, which B’Elanna presumes is also probably haunted.

“Is it working?” B’Elanna says. She’d meant it genuinely, but she suspects it had come out kind of asshole-ishly. Wildman turns to face her. She’s really a very attractive woman, very symmetrical and very pretty in a nice-girl way. Easy on the eyes, as Chakotay would say. But as she takes a deep breath and removes her uniform jacket and tosses it onto a red and gold velvet settee and throws her shoulders back in preparation to speak, she’s kind of hot in a more menacing way.

“None of what I’ve been doing has, in fact, calmed me down,” Wildman says. She crosses toward an ornate mahogany credenza and pours herself a generous amount of dark liquid from the crystal decanter there into a matching crystal tumbler from the set just behind the decanter, the four glasses corralled in a shiny brass casement. She takes a drink and says, 

“I mean, really, B’Elanna. Is this all just some practical joke to you? Seven’s been a real person for what? A year? And you and the Captain—the Captain! Who hand sewed a quilt for Naomi when she was born! Who always knows exactly when any of us need a hug! Who has sacrificed and skimped and given everything she could give of herself the entire time we’ve been out here in Hell!—have somehow decided it’s ok to just dick her around, trick her into believing whatever bullshit is most fun for you at the moment. Look. I get it. She’s an easy target. Anyone who is so literal is an easy target. And there’s plenty of distance there, a level of remove that you can’t get with anyone else on board.” Her voice takes on a hard, sharp, sarcastic edge. “It’s completely justifiable to be needlessly cruel to a Borg. The Borg don’t have feelings as such, so no harm no foul. Just all fun and games. An intellectual exercise. And Lord knows you and the Captain can hardly contain yourselves at the prospect of an intellectual exercise, among other exercises, apparently.” 

Wildman downs the rest of her glass and then refills it. She sips this time and sighs and twists her—admittedly very lovely—neck abruptly, and the pops and cracks thud against the gothic Victorian busy, lush wallpaper.

“I understand your position,” B’Elanna says. “But a lot of your conceits are incorrect.”

Wildman’s eyes are blazing and suddenly piercing her, daring her to elaborate, daring her to fight. Or that’s how B’Elanna’s perceiving those flashing eyes.

“Oh?” Wildman says. She’s even more dangerously sexy than B’Elanna had originally accounted for: her naked biceps, flexing as she clutches her crystal tumbler, are shapely and taut, and her clavicle is jutting under her gray tank top. And even more enticingly, she’s mad and not trying to hide it, saying in a clipped, mean voice, “What, pray tell, am I incorrect about?” 

B’Elanna wishes in that moment she were the type to be able to tuck her tail between her legs and just apologize or even grovel a little, but number one, she’s not, and number two, being accused of half-spurious charges by a sexy, angry woman gets her blood going, makes her want to react—not so much in defense as for the challenge of it. Yikes. Wildman’s probably more right about her than she would like to admit. But she can already feel herself shifting into a combative posture, can feel her mind zipping with possible avenues for different kinds of conflict.

“Plenty,” B’Elanna says. She goes to the credenza now and pours herself a glass. She knocks back a slug of it. It’s some kind of fortified wine, bracingly sweet and probably quite perilous if consumed over-indulgently. They’re standing not two feet apart, neither giving any ground. Wildman drums her fingers on the credenza, and her stare doesn’t waver. She says,

“Very pithy but not very informative.”

“Here’s the thing, Sam. I get why you’re mad. Janeway and I are assholes. Sure, she does a better job than I do of suppressing it most of the time. But that’s because she’s been doing it longer and she’s beautiful and charming. And also she likes people. She’s one of those rare individuals whose nature is in direct opposition to her inclination. That is, she wants to be nice and kind and cuddly and encouraging and empathetic and heroic, and she works at it and often succeeds, but she’s really, at baseline, just a dick. Let’s get real. Only a true bastard running solely on spite and adrenaline could fly her ship of 140-odd souls straight between binary pulsars full well knowing the odds of survival in order to prove a point.”

Wildman laughs—it’s a forceful, humorless laugh—and B’Elanna watches her chest rise and fall with the physicality of it. Wildman says,

“You do realize you’ve reinforced rather than disproved everything I’ve said.”

“Sure. If you’re impatient,” B’Elanna says.

“So you’ve got a point you’re leading up to? You’re not just talking to hear yourself talk for long enough to distract me and run off?”

“Oh please. If I were planning to run off, I would’ve done so while you were still deciding what creepy mansion you wanted to corner me in.”

“But what would’ve been the fun in that?” Wildman says, her voice again at that razor’s edge, slicing and sarcastic and, damn it all, sexy.

“Exactly. Although I am a little insulted you didn’t program some ominous organ background music to set the scene a little better,” B’Elanna says.

Wildman leans in closer and says in a low, threatening rasp,

“I don’t know what you think this is, but let me be perfectly clear: I’m not here to flirt with you. I’m here because I’m disappointed in you and the Captain and both your shared and individual childishness. I’m also here to determine whether we need to call off our drama-inducing doubles velocity match. I’m here because I don’t want to encourage any more of this competitive, manipulative nonsense. I’m here because I’m an optimist, and ideally you’ll be sufficiently chastised and shamed to realize how much of a fucking jerk you’ve been, and both you and the Captain will apologize to Seven.”

B’Elanna tops off both their glasses. She hoists herself to a seated position on the edge of the credenza and runs a finger along the lip of her glass. It had been one of her favorite ways to annoy her mother. She’d volunteer to clean up after dinner just so that she could be left alone with varying sizes and shapes and types of glass receptacles to mess around with, and that high ethereal sound that she wasn’t very good at producing as an adolescent had been similar enough to the drone note of the DIron that it drove her mother absolutely nuts. She’s much more skillful now, and the tone she emits on her tumbler is as elegant and precise as it is unnerving.

“Should I practice on you, then?” B’Elanna says. Wildman cuts her eyes at B’Elanna and then turns away, ambles toward the fireplace. She rests her elbow on the mantle and takes a drink, and B’Elanna watches the profile of her throat swallow in the firelight.

“Practice what? Your apology?” Wildman says.

“We could start there,” B’Elanna says.

“Well. Start there, then,” Wildman says. B’Elanna takes a drink, fortifies herself with fortified wine, says,

“I’m sorry. Truly.”

They’re both staring at the fire now, and B’Elanna’s wondering if Wildman had programmed this setting personally or if it had just been in the database. Under different circumstances she’d like to explore it. There are a lot of really intriguing details in this room, and she wonders about the extent of it—if it’s a whole house or maybe just the one room, part of a locked-door mystery, perhaps.

“Is that it?” Wildman says, still turned away from her, in a more neutral, kind of confused tone.

“Well, I mean you probably don’t want to hear all my justifications. You just want contrition and repentance.”

“You’re not wrong. But I am a little curious about your motivations. And I know Seven has a whole list of questions, and I don’t mean that metaphorically. She’s in Cargo Bay Two editing that list currently, in fact.” 

B’Elanna laughs. She appreciates the kind of dedication and methodology it takes to formulate an organized and logically flowing set of bullet points of grievances instead of just flying in half-cocked and spitting mad and saying whatever crazy stuff that comes out in whatever order. Seven’s commitment to efficiency in all things can be annoying. But really, an organized list delivered calmly with the expectation that each point will be civilly discussed is a strategy that is not just streamlined for the sake of being streamlined; it’s, among other things, pretty darn considerate to the party who caused the grievance to be met with logic and reason rather than a swift kick in the ass. B’Elanna has to admit at least to herself that she likes Seven’s consistency and might, if she’s in the mood to admit things to herself, actually just like Seven in general. Ghuy’. It’s usually Vulcan brandy that gets her sentimental. But she supposes any brandy is the next step up from fortified wine. Maybe this is a Ktarian brandy or something. But she’s got to get off this train and onto the stable steps of a station platform of anything relevant. She says,

“Honestly, I don’t actually have a lot of motivation to speak of. I’m mostly impulse.”

Wildman has opened the stained-glass screen enclosing the fireplace and is now stoking the logs with a brass poker. Sparks fly up and illuminate her face like free and joyful lightning bugs on a humid summer night and then tumble down onto the stone at her feet and extinguish themselves. A few make their way to the bearskin rug, but even dead and ornamental, the skin is too intimidating, and they dim before impact. Wildman says,

“And your impulse is questionable at best, by your own admission.”

“I don’t think that’s what I said,” B’Elanna says. Wildman turns, and B’Elanna wills herself not to look at the sharp brass implement tightly clenched in Wildman’s dominant hand. They make eye contact, and it’s not so much looking at each other as looking into each other and challenging each other. B’Elanna adds, “What I actually said was probably stupid, but my intent was to convey that I’m an asshole but I don’t typically mean to be. And that the Captain is an asshole, but she never, ever means to be. If either of us have hurt any feelings, it hasn’t been intentional.”

“And yet,” Wildman says. She’s still got the poker in her hand. She’s not brandishing it exactly, but she does appear to know how to use it if provoked. B’Elanna hopes this is not a real, actual thing but an unconscious, heightened-adrenaline thing, perhaps in response to aggression pheromones she’s been unknowingly sending out and Wildman’s been unknowingly receiving. Even so, her hand is tight around the neck of the decanter, ready to use it as a blunt weapon—and after it’s shattered upon impact, sharp weapon—if need be. B’Elanna says,

“Look at it from a different point of view for even a second. Even if I weren’t so obviously selfish, I’d still have to be looking out for my own interests in some kind of way; we all do. ‘If Mama ain’t happy ain’t nobody happy,’ as the old saying goes. And Janeway. Well. She’s got to be the Captain first. She’s got to adhere to Starfleet protocol and look after her crew, keep the ship running, keep everybody together. But she’s got a lot more going on with her than just Starfleet captain shit. So sure maybe my impulses are questionable, but I’m not a fucking magician. As much as I’d like to, I can’t sleight of hand my way out of difficult situations. I can do only what I can do and I can navigate only what I can navigate in the ways I’m equipped to navigate. If you think I’m trying to hurt Seven with a calculated attack rather than having accidentally hurt Seven trying to weasel my way out of my own hurt, you’ve misread me. I’m much too involved in my own ongoing internal torment to have even given a passing thought to messing up somebody else. Theoretically I can probably agree that there are people out there who live to manipulate others. But functionally, most people are too busy thinking about themselves to concoct such elaborate schemes.”

Wildman pokes at the fire, replaces the brass implement in the iron rack to the right of the hearth, turns back toward B’Elanna, and then says,

“So let me get this straight: you acknowledge you’re a jerk, but you contend you’re too much of a jerk to have been a jerk on purpose to anyone else.”

“Essentially. Yes,” B’Elanna says.

Wildman surges forward and clinks her glass against B’Elanna’s, says,

“By fuck that’s stupid, but I’ll drink to it regardless.”

“I’ll drink to most anything,” B’Elanna says. They both down the rest of their glassfuls. But B’Elanna finishes her thought, “But your drinking to it is compelling. You believe me, then? That the Captain and I have acted purely out of self-interest rather than antipathy or belligerence or just plain meanness? And you accept my apology?” B’Elanna says.

Wildman cocks her head, appears to be studying B’Elanna’s face for a few seconds, says finally,

“You’ve made a decent case. And I can go along with it. Provisionally.”

“And what are the provisions?” B’Elanna says.

Wildman laughs and crosses the room, passes her, strides all the way to the wall panel, now hidden behind a Caravaggio print. She pauses there and says,

“Obviously you will be required to submit yourself to whatever interrogation Seven has in store.”

“Obviously,” B’Elanna says. Wildman heaves the frame away from the wall, opening the panel, says,

“And obviously you will be required to encourage your hickey buddy to do the same.”

“Obviously,” B’Elanna says.

Wildman’s fingers are dancing against the keyboard of the console, and then the creepy mansion is gone. It’s now a gymnasium. A too-familiar gymnasium with that too-familiar gymnasium smell of polish and cleaner and sweat. The walls are adorned with pendants. “Kessik IV Region 8 Cowpokes Velocity Team System Champions 2356.” She wonders how Wildman had known this about her. But she figures not much about her is a secret anymore. Although this feels a little different, a little too personal. Wildman says,

“I don’t know whether I’d want us to win or lose if we play Tuesday. But I’ve got to know what you’ve got.”

There are now phasers calibrated for velocity, hovering above both of them respectively.

“You want to make a friendly wager?” B’Elanna says.

“Not really, but I’m willing to meet you halfway,” Wildman says.

“That’s what the wager I’ve got in mind is all about. If I win, we go ahead with Tuesday, on the condition that Janeway and I have already acceded to your other, previous terms. If you win, Tuesday’s off. And you get my holodeck time for this weekend and the next.”

“That’s more reasonable than I’d expected,” Wildman says.

“I pride myself on being unpredictable,” B’Elanna says.


	12. Chapter 12

“It’s not as if you have not previously been known to have engaged in sexual activity,” Tuvok says.

B’Elanna’s surprised to have been admitted to Janeway’s quarters while Tuvok is there and is doubly surprised that Tuvok carries on with the previous conversation as if nothing had changed and in fact as if she’s not in the room. But she supposes she shouldn’t be surprised on either account. If Tuvok’s here saying this and not even raising an eyebrow at B’Elanna’s presence, they’ve already gotten most of the gory details out of the way and have probably both been expecting her to show up.

He’s sitting at one end of the divan in his uniform with his hands clasped in his lap. Janeway’s sitting on the other end of the divan criss cross applesauce in a midnight blue silk pajama set that’s hot pants and a scoop-neck long-sleeve blouse. She’s holding a tumbler of the dregs of probably Kentucky straight bourbon whiskey in one hand, the other draped over the arm of the couch, fingers drumming idly and not in any discernible pattern. B’Elanna’s still just standing there near the entryway with her hands in the pockets of her athletic shorts, watching and listening and waiting. Janeway is saying,

“It’s common knowledge I’ve had two fiancés, sure, and there’s plenty implied in that, but this situation is—”

“Forgive me for interrupting you, but I am not referring to your pre-Voyager romantic and sexual history. I am referring to the incident approximately two years ago when Earth’s pioneer aviatrix Amelia Earhart—” Tuvok is saying.

“You and Amelia Earhart?! That wasn’t just a rumor?!” B’Elanna can’t help but say. She surges forward, hand extended for a high five. Tuvok crooks an eyebrow at her, and Janeway clears her throat. Janeway tentatively lifts the hand that’s been on the arm of the divan and briefly and embarrassedly touches her palm to B’Elanna’s and immediately after tucks that hand under her leg. And she’s back to looking at Tuvok, saying,

“Maybe so. But there weren’t any visible marks, and she wasn’t a member of my crew.”

“Visible marks?! Amelia Earhart gave you a hickey somewhere not visible in regular clothes?!” B’Elanna again can’t help but say. She wants to go in for another high five but restrains herself. Janeway shoots her a glare, and at that she feels like a stupid horny teenager suddenly. Tuvok says,

“Yes. Those are significant distinctions. However. A precedent has already been set—that you are a woman who requires and enjoys companionship and seeks it out with individuals whom you find intellectually and physically stimulating and whom you respect. Additionally, this prior incident proves you are able to separate your personal feelings from your duties as Captain, which I know is a main concern for you going forward.”

“Thank you, old friend,” Janeway says. “But I’m not sure you’re right about that. A fling with a presumed dead 400-year-old American hero is one thing—”

“If I may interject,” B’Elanna says. Tuvok and Janeway look at her expectantly. She continues, “I think the crew would’ve been upset if you’d had that opportunity and not taken it.” Janeway rolls her eyes extravagantly, but B’Elanna shrugs and takes her empty glass, goes to the replicator to refill it for her. She considers asking for another Ktarian sherry—Wildman had disclosed that info rather reluctantly after B’Elanna had won the velocity match; Wildman had put up a good fight, but ultimately B’Elanna’s suspicions about her lack of gracefulness had been correct—but she goes for an electrolyte sports drink instead. Tuvok’s tea is untouched and cooling on the coffee table, so she doesn’t bother with anything for him. Meanwhile, Janeway and Tuvok have been continuing their conversation:

“I understand your concern about the matter, but my personal belief is that it is unwarranted,” Tuvok says.

“Ok, well. We’ll put a pin in that one because I’m willing to suspend my disbelief on it. If you’re sure of my ability to remain professional and unbiased, I’ll trust you for now. Another concern, though, is whether my crew can take me seriously,” Janeway says.

It’s at this point that B’Elanna finishes with the drinks. She doesn’t particularly want to sit in the chair in the corner, but she’s also not sure if she wants to sit in between these two and have to watch them have a philosophical discussion tennis-match style. But Janeway’s reaching for her glass and then repositioning herself in a way that suggests she expects B’Elanna to sit next to her, so she obliges, is surprised when Janeway rests her hand on her bare thigh, is not so surprised that she wishes Tuvok would wrap this up sooner rather than later.

“I am dubious that that is the correct question to ask,” Tuvok says. Janeway looks at him with her head cocked, brow furrowed, lips pursed. She’s clearly thinking, formulating a response.

“It might be more relevant to ask whether the crew respects and likes you enough to pretend to take you seriously,” B’Elanna says.

“Excuse me?” Janeway says.

“Indeed, that is the question to which I was referring,” Tuvok says.

Janeway opens her mouth to say something, but the door chimes. Janeway rolls her eyes less extravagantly and more tiredly this time, her whole body morphing into her “what now” posture. But she says in an exhausted growl,

“Come in.”

The door swishes open, and it’s Seven in a cut-off hoodie and basketball shorts—very obviously inspired by Tom Paris, maybe just because she’s seen him in this ensemble and had been inspired or maybe because he’s personally told her about how comfortable and utilitarian the outfit is; it’s even in similar blue and gray hues, but of course they’re similar in coloring and look good in the same shades—and Samantha Wildman in an oversized dusty rose cable knit sweater and black bike shorts. Seven and Wildman aren’t holding hands, but their knuckles are grazing each other, and in Seven’s other hand there is a PADD.

Seven and Wildman stand just inside the door, and their eyes flit to the other occupants of the room. Wildman says,

“Captain. Is this a good time? Should we come back later?”

Janeway laughs. It’s just the one laugh, hollow and brittle. She says,

“The more the merrier.”

Seven and Wildman take a step forward, and B’Elanna can’t quite shake the feeling that this is like one of those ancient paintings where a queen has a day designated for commoners to approach her with local grievances but it turns into a bunch of beheadings of monarchs and courtiers instead. Come to think of it, she hasn’t seen a lot of earth paintings depicting this sort of thing, but her mother had dragged her along to an art history class at the community center when they’d lived on Q’onoS, and that had been its own genre of painting. Not her favorite. She had preferred the pastorals with maybe a lone targ herder standing on a craggy precipice leaning on a staff, only her back visible, her hair blowing in the wind, a lot of dark storm clouds making up most of the picture.

“Captain Janeway. It is fortunate that you and Lieutenant Torres are present concurrently as my questions concern both of you,” Seven says. “However, the presence of Lieutenant Commander Tuvok unnerves me.”

“Curious. What about my presence unnerves you?” Tuvok says.

“It is not your presence in itself, Lieutenant Commander, but the discussion I would like to engage in is of a personal nature, and while I do trust your discretion, I believe I would experience embarrassment speaking about it in front of you,” Seven says.

“Embarrassment is an illogical but deceptively powerful emotion. Captain, perhaps we can resume this conversation tomorrow?”

“Sure,” Janeway says.

“Hold on,” B’Elanna says. “Let’s get real. This is going to be embarrassing for all of us any way we slice it. Might be handy to have Tuvok as a mediator, just in case.”

“On the occasions you choose to employ logic, Lieutenant Torres, you do so quite adequately. However. I would rather not be intrusive,” Tuvok says as he stands. B’Elanna rolls her eyes at the backhanded compliment, but she puts it in her pocket to take out and look at later anyway.

“Thank you, Lieutenant Commander. I appreciate your courtesy,” Seven says.

He exits, and Janeway hasn’t taken her hand off B’Elanna’s thigh. Janeway says,

“Well, would you like to have a seat? Or a drink? Both? Neither?” 

Especially now that neutral Tuvok is gone, B’Elanna’s thinking again about those old Klingon paintings. The monarchs had always been depicted as ruinously decadent and hedonistic and that’s a big reason why they’d had to lose their heads. There are too many parallels here.

The backs of Wildman’s knuckles brush more intentionally against Seven’s, and the two share a glance. Wildman takes a tentative step forward, says,

“Thank you. I’d take one of those electrolyte sports drinks…” She gingerly seats herself beside B’Elanna. And Janeway squeezes her thigh and gives her a half-pleading look. B’Elanna gets it. She can see the whiskey flush on Janeway’s chest. Janeway’s two drinks or so from slurring yet, but she’s at the phase of Janeway tipsy where she’s a little loose limbed, and if she gets up to get the drinks, it will be obvious that she’s not completely sober. Either that, or the guests will think she’s trying to seduce them. Now that B’Elanna’s experienced sweaty angry Wildman in a tank top, she wouldn’t be able to blame anyone… 

B’Elanna takes Janeway’s glass, gets up, goes to the replicator, says,

“What flavor you want? You strike me as a purple gal.”

“Pink, please,” Wildman says. B’Elanna doesn’t voice it, but she gloats internally because pink is technically a shade of purple so she’d been right.

“Seven?” B’Elanna says.

“I am, as you might say, a purple gal.” Seven says. B’Elanna hadn’t foreseen that one—if she’d been trying to guess she’d have thought she would’ve preferred water or a nutritional supplement and if she’d have been forced to pick a flavor it’d’ve been orange because that’s both Janeway’s and Tom’s preferred flavor. She figures one out of two isn’t bad, and either way, it’s neither here nor there. Seven very rigidly sits on the edge of the sofa, now clutching her PADD in both hands, propping it upright on her thighs.

B’Elanna returns with the electrolyte sports drinks and Janeway’s fresh bourbon and soda and sits a little closer to Janeway than she might typically in company, but it’s designed to be a three-person couch so space is tight, and regardless they all know what’s going on. Janeway’s hand is back on her thigh. It hasn’t been there in a sexy way at any point during the evening, but this time it’s especially not so. She feels Janeway shift beside her, and she chances a glance her way. 

Janeway’s got her face all cool Captain, but her traps are visibly tight, and it’s obvious to a keen observer that the alcohol’s melting all the muscles in her body but the ones that hurt most. So, B’Elanna knows the hand is there to anchor herself. She rather likes being able to provide that kind of solid comfort, especially after having seen Janeway do the same kind of thing on the bridge countless times during difficult negotiations with her hand on Chakotay’s forearm—sans alcohol of course but the traps still so tight. She’d always understood it for what it had been, but there’d always been a little jealousy anyway. She’s never been able to be the one Janeway relies on in this way on the bridge—in those instances B’Elanna’s at ops or occasionally the helm, not close enough for Janeway’s tactile nature to reach out to—but she likes it. She likes the trust in it and the necessity of it. Four years ago, she’d never have put money on having given a fig about what this woman needed from her, but now, knowing she’s needed by this woman, even in this small, simple way, fills her with… something. Not purpose, exactly. Not warmth, exactly. But it’s like a set of lock tumblers clicking. She’s never felt wanted—again not a sexy way but a genuine connection way—and certainly never needed. But now she feels both, and it’s a lot. Almost too much. Almost enough to make her forget she’s about to be decimated by Seven’s thoroughly thought-out interrogation.

Seven twists the cap back on her purple sports drink after having taken maybe a sip and half—perhaps she isn’t actually a purple gal and it’s some sort of misdirection—and sets it on the coffee table next to Tuvok’s abandoned tea cup. She says,

“If it is acceptable to everyone in attendance, I would like to begin airing my grievances with you, Captain.” Janeway’s fingernails dig into B’Elanna’s thigh on reflex at having been addressed directly. Seven continues in what could be presumed to be her version of placatingly, “I possess what may be seen as an unfair advantage because my cortical node automatically monitors—”

“Oh skip it, Seven. We all know what your cortical node monitors, and we all know it’s nearing midnight, and we all know I’m half drunk. Get on with it already,” Janeway says. If B’Elanna had more sensitive skin, there would surely be bruises on her thigh tomorrow. But B’Elanna’s not bothered by the fingers pressing into her leg; she’s watching Seven and Wildman. Seven’s looking at her PADD but then cutting her eyes slightly at Wildman, who nods an inconspicuous nod—well, inconspicuous if one hasn’t been looking for it, which she has been. Seven is already rigid, but somehow she manages to straighten her spine even more as she peruses her PADD and then says,

“Acknowledged, Captain. I will comply.” She again consults her PADD, and although B’Elanna knows it’s probably not the best thing to do, she’s too curious to let it slide, and she says,

“Sorry, Seven, but what’s this PADD business about? You have an eidetic memory or whatever, I thought.” That same old muscle is jumping in Seven’s jaw. Again, Wildman’s knuckles brush Seven’s, and the muscle jumps more slowly and then stops entirely. Seven takes a breath, then says,

“I find it helpful to create infographics to process emotional matters. It is more efficient for me to have them in front of me to refer to so that I do not have to access my eidetic memory as it is taxing to maintain conversation as I do so.”

“Oh. I didn’t know it worked like that. Maybe when you’re over hating me, we could get a coffee sometime and talk about it. The way your brain works is so interesting to me,” B’Elanna says. Seven cocks her head, says,

“Are you making fun of me, Lieutenant Torres?”

“Not at all. I didn’t mean it to come out that way. This is just the wrong time and place for the conversation I’d like to have with you. Sorry. Go on. You were about to grill the Captain,” B’Elanna says. Seven says,

“Your word choice does little to dispel the impression that you are making fun of me. But I am choosing to ignore that so that this does not extend until Alpha shift.”

“Great. Let’s get to it, then,” Janeway says. Seven turns and pins her with an icy Borg stare, says,

“Captain. Last evening I asked you a series of very specific questions, and you evaded and obfuscated as best you could until my queries were so pointed that you could no longer do anything but either tell me exactly what I wanted to know or outright lie, and you chose to lie. You have always claimed to be honest, especially with me, so I am both disheartened and vexed by this turn of events.” The claw at B’Elanna’s mid-quadriceps has loosened and is now being used as the fulcrum to leverage Janeway up to a standing position. Janeway’s pacing her living room now in her tipsy, predatory way. She’s drunk half her new drink and is gesticulating dramatically and fluidly with the glass as she says,

“Let’s put aside for a moment that you intentionally used your naive-Borg schtick on me because you knew how I would react to that and focus on why you were asking me anything at all: you had an agenda. You wanted to get something out of me. And I—because I stupidly thought I had the right to my own life, thought maybe I didn’t have to disclose everything to everyone—answered your questions in the best ways I could that I thought might satisfy you while still protecting my privacy. And then when you got to where you thought you could really pin me down I figured out I’d been had, and I retaliated in an admittedly petty way. But outright lying? Ha! You’re not as observant as you claim.”

Seven crooks her ocular implant and stares at Janeway, who is propped against the replicator and glaring, her glass hovering close to her lips. Wildman and B’Elanna look at each other briefly—it’s a “this might turn out worse than our confrontation” look—and then look back at Janeway as she knocks back the last gulp and says,

“If I recall correctly, you asked me what kind of person ticked my boxes, and I gave you the following list: logical, efficient, intelligent, mechanically inclined, clever, curious, contrarian, steadfast, physically strong, emotionally tender, incredibly beautiful. Sure, I knew you’d think that I was describing you. After all the shit you’d been giving me under the false pretense of wanting to understand humanity—which you damn well know is my weak spot—I felt justified in misleading you. But you can’t genuinely accuse me of falsehood. If that all doesn’t describe Lieutenant Torres, I’ll eat my hat.” 

“You are not wearing a hat,” Seven says. 

B’Elanna knows she should be paying attention to the events unfolding, but she’s fixated on the list of her character traits according to Janeway. Surely Janeway’s cherry-picked the best of her and cross-referenced them with Seven’s best. She’d like to hear an unfiltered list, a more accurate list, a list specific to just her. Or maybe she doesn’t want that. Maybe a list specific to just her wouldn’t be so positive. What would Janeway have said about her to a less biased audience? But what impetus would there have been to talk about her to someone else? What would Janeway have said about her in a similar situation but with a different person? What about her personality overlaps with, say, Chakotay? And even more disconcerting, what traits does Janeway actually value in a partner rather than just say she values when she’s dicking somebody around?

“Hell in a handbasket!” Janeway says, putting a hand to her temple. “Do you have anything else to add? Or is that your main takeaway?”

“That is not my main takeaway,” Seven says. She inhales sharply through her nose and then, “My main takeaway is that this conversation is futile.”

“Because I haven’t answered your questions the way you’d have preferred?” Janeway says.

“Because you prefer to be contentious,” Seven says. Wildman closes her fingers gently over Seven’s wrist. B’Elanna wishes she could do the same to Janeway, but Janeway’s still standing and intermittently pacing. Wildman says,

“I think what Seven really wants is an apology. An admission of wrongdoing.” Janeway’s eyes blaze for just a millisecond, and then she’s got her cool Captain face on, says,

“I’ll admit to acting foolishly and recklessly. And I’ll even apologize for any offense I’ve caused.” She looks at Seven purposefully. “I am sorry that you were confused and worried, especially when you thought I was injured. I know you care so much, and I know you feel not many people care about you. And I do. I do care about you, and I don’t want to hurt you.” She looks at B’Elanna. “But I will not concede that anything I’ve done is wrong.”

Seven scrutinizes Janeway’s face and then B’Elanna’s face for a long moment. Then she says,

“Understood, Captain.” She pauses and looks at Wildman, who is now rubbing slow circles with her thumb over Seven’s wrist and giving her a look B’Elanna can’t exactly interpret—a secret code between them that B’Elanna’s not privy to, something forged in a close friendship that, even though she’s kind of annoyed by Seven’s interrogation techniques, she’s glad that Seven has been able to cultivate. Seven continues, “Actually, not completely understood. But I have understood as much as I can for tonight. I would like to speak with you privately at another time after I have had some time to think about what has transpired this evening. Would you be amenable, Captain?” 

Janeway sighs, says,

“Sure. Honestly, I’d probably be better company after a good night’s sleep.” 

Wildman reaches over and squeezes B’Elanna’s shoulder as she moves to stand. B’Elanna knows this look. It’s a “chin up pal” look, and B’Elanna thinks maybe Wildman could be in the running for person to confide in and seek advice from. Not only is Wildman able to navigate Seven’s prickliness, but also she has the guts to get right in somebody’s face when she’s mad. The nicest person on board but also with a steel core and a sharp edge. She’ll have to see how all this ultimately plays out, but there’s something there that’s got potential. 

Seven and Wildman are at the door now, and Seven says,

“Thank you for your time, Captain. Lieutenant Torres, if you were being sincere about conversing over coffee, would you like to meet in the mess hall tomorrow after Alpha shift?”

“I usually don’t do caffeine after three pm, but since I picked up tomorrow’s Gamma, I’ll make an exception,” B’Elanna says pointedly, and she almost thinks Seven looks a little abashed about her Tuvok meditation subterfuge. Seven blinks once, says,

“I will see you there.”

And Seven and Wildman finally, mercifully exit.

Janeway flops onto the couch, sprawled indecorously with her head in B’Elanna’s lap, eyes closed. B’Elanna drags her fingers through Janeway’s hair in the soft, slow, methodical way she knows Janeway likes as preemptive penance for what she’s about to say:

“So how many people have to know about us for it to count as… everyone… for our bet? I mean, do we need to do an official survey? Because as it stands—” Janeway looks at her, groans, says,

“What do I have to do to get you to drop the subject for now?”

“All right, I get it. But. You know, if I hadn’t seen it with my own two eyes, I’d never have believed you could be intimidated,” B’Elanna says. Janeway’s eyes flutter closed again as B’Elanna continues to play with her hair, and Janeway says dreamily,

“As my mother used to say, ‘Sometimes you’re the windshield; sometimes you’re the bug.’”

B’Elanna’s fingers hit a snag, and as she begins to piece through it, she says,

“Wait a second. That sounds so familiar. My mother used to say something similar, but there was more to it, and of course she said it in Klingon.” She pauses, remembers, translates, “My mother’s phrase was, ‘Sometimes you’re the windshield; sometimes you’re the bug. But a windshield death is quick and painless and hinders your opponent’s sight.’”

Janeway laughs, and the sound and the action generating the sound reverberate from the backside of her ribs against B’Elanna’s femurs. There is electricity shooting up and up through veins and arteries and capillaries. And B’Elanna shivers. Janeway says,

“Oh wow. What came first, the chicken or the egg?”

“Are you really in the mood to debate xeno-evolution and the nature of idioms, or did you just need an excuse to use another old-timey cliche?” B’Elanna says.

“Old-timey cliche,” Janeway says. B’Elanna bends down and kisses Janeway full on the mouth.


	13. Chapter 13

Holodeck 1 is running a public access program at a public access time, but it’s a rather obscure program at a rather obscure time. 

It’s 10 am on a Monday—her day off this week—and the program is a Venus sky bar. Murky pink light filters in through stained-glass windows and bounces off the gleaming, sterile stainless steel surfaces of tables and chairs and the gleaming, polished mahogany and hard rock maple surfaces of the anti-grav grand pianos suspended at bizarre angles from the ceiling. And these weird pianos are being played by upside-down half-naked Orion women. 

One of the things B’Elanna misses most about not being confined to a starship for eternity is the ability to go to a public place that isn’t the product of somebody’s imagination. Sure, these photonically manufactured places have some basis in reality. And. Sure, every real actual place was designed at some point and built at some point—imagination to blueprint to brick and mortar—but a non-holographic public space is subject to the vagaries of nature. There is evidence of wear and tear due to rain and wind and rebellious adolescents with access to pocket knives and spray paint. There are algorithms that can be written into any program that can generate this sort of gradual degradation, but it’s always so obviously an algorithm. In real life, there’s graffiti and then painting over and then more graffiti. In real life, there are bent sign poles re-straightened inexpertly and rather unconcernedly. B’Elanna can’t taste the difference between real, home-cooked food and replicated food as some claim they can, but she can tell the difference between real dilapidation and holographic dilapidation. Any dilapidation engenders a certain amount of melancholy, but it’s a different sort for organic and holographic. For the organic it’s rather inevitable. But for the holographic. Someone has written this code. Someone has seen and foreseen and has decided to document the dark parts, and it’s really kind of depressing. But an old, real place that naturally looks its age—regardless of whether it’s been well-tended—has a certain charm to it.

And the smells. A holographic smell always has that hint of metal in it. She’d gone to a botanical park a few weeks ago—some fanciful twee place she’d assumed had been programmed by Tal Celes but had actually been programmed by Tuvok, allegedly so that he could test his orchids without having to look at Neelix in aeroponics—and she had been so excited to smell the gardenias. But of course, it had been as if they had been welded together recently and there was a residual ghost of acetylene and high carbon steel. What she wouldn’t give to even walk into somebody’s grandma’s house and smell her cat and stale cigarette smoke and the warm incipient rot of a compost bin that needs taken out to the pile. Maybe that aspect affects her so much because smells like that remind her that other people exist and live different lives.

Another thing B’Elanna misses about organic public places is how nondescript they are—how they’re designed to be unobtrusive, drab, utilitarian so that people can just be in them and do whatever they’re doing. She loves a good mostly empty library with ugly brown carpet chosen because it hides stains, a mediocrely maintained park on the wrong side of town with neglected tennis courts and concrete-block bathrooms, a linoleum-lined community center with half-working fluorescent lights that smells of Meals on Wheels. The kinds of places that are ugly in a comforting way or a visual white noise way, cozy because of the familiarity rather than having been intentionally made to be cozy. Ultimately, the things that happen in the place are more important than the place. When one has many places available to go to, one doesn’t need every place to be a fabulous destination and in fact probably does just need some places to be less stimulating in order to focus on oneself rather than the surroundings.

Now that she’s got the Captain’s ear—that’s just a little joke with herself; she knows Janeway’s fair and balanced and listens to everyone’s suggestions—she might put together a proposal for turning one of the conference rooms into a library or something—a lounge or rec room, maybe. Sure, they’ve got a couple of gyms and that’s a certain kind of public space, and they certainly smell exactly how they should, but to have a place that isn’t just one’s quarters or the holodeck or the mess hall to hang out and read and play cards. Maybe they could have a piano in there, too. Not one on the ceiling, though. Just the regular kind. She’d taken lessons as a kid back on Kessik IV from a very attractive middle-aged Betazoid woman whom she always had suspected had been reaching into her brain and seeing exactly how little she’d practiced and also what she had imagined about what kind of underthings that lady had been wearing underneath her modest wrap dresses. She can still read music and can almost certainly still pound out a simple treble line and with enough concentration a simple bass line, too, and she still thinks once in a while about what might have been under those wrap dresses, but most of the rest of that education is lost to the sands of time. She’d walked to that hot Betazoid lady’s house after school every Thursday afternoon—her house had always smelled of coffee and cinnamon rolls and a tinge of a mold problem in her basement—and she had taken her lessons on a little oak console piano in the cluttered drawing room. That’s why she’s thinking about this right now. She’s trying to remember the differences between the types of pianos so that if she does indeed draft a proposal she can be precise about her requisition requests. At her own house, they’d had an ancient upright that was at least a half-step flat across the board. The keys had been real ivory although chipped and sticky. After a little too much bloodwine, her mother sometimes would make her accompany her as she sang old country songs, which were easy enough for dubiously skilled young B’Elanna—they’re pretty much all the same three chords. 

But for now, public holoprograms are the closest thing to the old normal, as not normal as they may be individually. And here she is trying to concentrate in the old normal way, sitting at a corner booth with her feet propped up on the chair across from her, a blank PADD on the table in front of her waiting for her to begin outlining the parameters of a holoprogram where she might want to see Janeway in a white tuxedo. Now that she’s assessed Wildman’s velocity skills firsthand, she’s convinced she and Wildman have a good chance of winning tomorrow, but there’s been so much going on during the past few days that she needs something to distract her from her own spiraling thoughts.

It’s not the best environment for any kind of contemplation. None of the public holoprograms are. She guesses they’re meant to appeal to a majority in some kind of aesthetic way and to be mostly used for social activities, which is a fundamental difference between a public holoprogram and a lot of public places in real life. Sure of course a library hosts activities but mostly it’s just a public place to gain information and to sit quietly somewhere that isn’t one’s house. So really, none of the holoprograms she's experienced have ever been anything near bland enough to adequately mirror a real public location because that’s not what they’d been designed for. That could be a good starting point for her own design. But why would anyone wear a tuxedo at a library or a community center or one of those dancing fountains choreographed to cheesy music? Maybe she’ll go ahead and design a more neutral place like she’d prefer just as a side project.

This particular public holoprogram is especially not bland, but at least it’s empty. It’s just the pianists and one bartender—no extra patrons to add chatter and nonsense, mercifully. It’s chaotic, sure, but not not musical. A cacophony that’s also a rhapsody. The sounds all meld together into an odd, off harmony—a not unpleasant noise but a lot of noise nevertheless. She sometimes likes a noisy environment to think in. But as she’s sitting there, staring blankly at her PADD, her mind wandering to so many things and inevitably coming to rest upon the memories of the milky, intermittently freckled planes of Janeway’s naked body, someone slides into the booth beside her. 

“Buy you a drink, Chief?” Jenny Delaney says. When B’Elanna had checked to see what the public holoprogram was this morning, she hadn’t known what to wear for the occasion. She’d never been to a Venus sky bar but had assumed it was like a strip club so pretty much anything would be acceptable and had thrown on jeans and a cut-off tee shirt and sneakers. Delaney, however, is wearing a supremely bizarre feathered and bejeweled jumpsuit contraption with a matching hat. Again she’s reminded of that hot Betazoid woman who’d taught her scales and arpeggios. When she’d done well on a memorized piece, the woman would show her her collection of hats and headpieces, let her try them on and tell her the stories about to what events on Betazed she’d worn them.

“Little early for that, isn’t it?” B’Elanna says.

“Oh don’t be a stick in the mud. We’ve both got the day off.”

“Impeccable logic,” B’Elanna says. Delaney waggles her eyebrows and then,

“Just you wait.”

Before B’Elanna can ask what that might mean, Delaney’s gone. She watches Delaney’s feathers bounce and sway as she makes her way to the bar, and she figures she’s in for a long, distracting encounter featuring a lot of questions she won’t want to answer, so she makes a few notes on her PADD about what all she’s been thinking about—just bullet points about her hypothetical proposal and less extravagant public holoprograms, etc.—to prove to herself her alone time hadn’t been entirely squandered.

Delaney’s back with two drinks in double-helix-shaped glasses. The liquid inside is swirling with streaks of blue, green, and yellow, and there’s steam or fog or smoke rising from the aperture.

“I’m not interrupting important engineering brainstorming, am I?” Delaney says and then takes a drink, throws her head back in ecstasy, eyes closed. She’s halfway to moaning. Curious, B’Elanna also takes a drink, but she’s not that impressed. It’s good, but it just tastes like a generic blue snow cone to her, the kind one can get at any county fair on any planet. Say, there’s an idea. Qo'noS always had the best county fairs. She adds that bullet point to her PADD as she answers Delaney’s question:

“No. Just personal brainstorming.”

“Hmm,” Delaney says. “Anything you want to discuss?” B’Elanna looks at her, tries to figure out exactly what she's implying. There’s a possibility that Delaney is genuinely interested in spitballing. She’s an idea woman with a quick mind, and she likes to imagine scenarios. But also, she’s a gossip, and she likes to imagine scenarios. B’Elanna says,

“I’ve been thinking. Don’t you ever just want to go to a boring public location?” Delaney cocks her head, says,

“Like what? The tag office?” B’Elanna laughs:

“Not that boring.” Delaney laughs but then sobers:

“Isn’t seeing the same people every day in the same places every day on the same ship every day boring enough?” She’s not sure she can articulate her exact feelings about the necessity of normal, boring places and how they might help everyone feel like this is a real community rather than an elaborate joke played on all of them. So she says,

“Still working out some kinks.” Delaney’s still got her serious face on, says,

“Speaking of…” Well here it is, at last—the questions she doesn’t want to answer. “I—” She falters. Very uncharacteristically. Delaney always just says what she says, confident and strident, whether what she's got to say is about stellar cartography or Megan or a juicy rumor. But here she is in her weirdo bird get up clutching a snow cone drink and looking at B’Elanna solemnly.

“Spit it out, Delaney,” B’Elanna says. She takes another drink of her sweet, cold, blue drink. It’s got more of a kick to it than she’d originally thought, and she can feel herself sliding toward belligerence, which happens with certain types of alcohol. Delaney has her hands spread on the table palms down. She looks at them and then back up at B’Elanna and says,

“Look. I know I’m seen as a frivolous person who says frivolous things. But I do turn my brain on from time to time. This thing you’ve got going with the Captain is serious, isn’t it?”

“What thing with the Captain?” B’Elanna says. She’s pretty sure Delaney knows all her business but she’s got to check. Delaney rolls her eyes, but then she’s looking at her again, intently.

“I’ve read my fair share of Klingon romance novels, you know. She kept your mark. That’s a big deal.”

“I don’t know where you’re getting your information—”

“Don’t, B’Elanna. You know I know. I deserve the truth.”

“Fine,” B’Elanna says. She sighs and takes another drink, too quickly. Her right eye pounds with brain freeze, and she wants to punch somebody about it. “But what’s the point of this conversation?”

“I don’t think the crew at large is going to be very happy about being lied to. If our intrepid leader is getting some, we’re happy for her. Remember when she fucked Amelia Earhart? Bottles were popped. But if she’s pretending she’s not when it’s obvious she is. Well that undermines her authority. We trust her to be honest with us. She doesn’t need to be completely transparent. Just not opaque, you know? Not to mention you.”

“Not to mention me?” B’Elanna says. She can understand and concede so far. But that. What does that mean? 

“Fucking A, do you not know? You’re a folk hero on this idiot clown vessel. Maquis badass who settles conflicts with her fists, ingratiates herself in the command structure by wits alone. The juxtaposition of your sexual conquest of the staid Starfleet captain and your professional devotion to her ideals. It’s so classic and powerful. The rebel bedding the true believer. Honestly, it’s probably best as an open secret, but still.”

“Shit fire and save matches, Delaney.”

“I know what you’re thinking. ‘Who else knows?’ Well. It’s everybody, really. And we’re all waiting for a tacit acknowledgment. Something vague we can all gossip about and sink our teeth into.” She cuts her eyes at B’Elanna at that. “Metaphorically. We’ll leave the literal teeth to you. And the Captain will inevitably hide the evidence of same with a turtleneck or a silk scarf rather than use a dermal regenerator because she wants to look at it later in the mirror because she’s also read her fair share of Klingon romance novels.” B’Elanna considers that that’s certainly a perspective.

“Kahless, what a mess,” B’Elanna says.

“Yeah. But it doesn’t have to be a mess,” Delaney says.

“Seems like a pretty inevitable mess to me,” B’Elanna says. They both drink from their too-sweet blue slushee drinks and stare at each other as they do so. Delaney says,

“Have you forgotten how fond we all are of gambling?”

“Well no. But I don’t see how that relates—” B’Elanna starts, but Delaney cuts her off:

“If you were to make your velocity match tomorrow a public program, I’d bet there’d be quite the audience, and that audience would infer plenty… and might even extrapolate in ways that might satisfy plenty of curiosities…”


	14. Chapter 14

Surely there’d been more in that blue slushee drink than just run-of-the-mill alcohol. 

One time in the Maquis, they’d all been holed up on some shitty, muddy, forbidding hell hole of a moon after a semi-successful guerrilla attack at a communications base hidden there, and B’Elanna and Seska had huddled together for warmth in their tent, and Seska had produced a bottle of wine from seemingly the ether. B’Elanna had always gotten some weird vibes off of Seska, and while she had never been quite as superstitious as her mother, she had always thought that maybe Seska had a little bit of the witch about her. That had turned out to be true in a certain kind of way—but more evil and technologically enhanced than sexy and mysterious and supernatural.

Anyway, on this shitty moon in their ramshackle shelter, they’d poured dark red liquid into the tin cups of their respective thermoses and had clinked them together in a toast, and then two slugs had rendered B’Elanna tipsy. Seska had jostled her tin cup, the dregs sloshing in a disconcertingly animate way, and had winked, had said, “Bit of mushroom in the finish, huh?” And they’d both proceeded to trip, rather pleasantly. 

In the morning, packing up their camp in preparation to return to the Val Jean, both bleary and hungover or maybe still just a touch high, they’d shared their visions: Seska’s, as she had relayed it, had involved being shrunk to the size of an insect, traversing grasslands on six spindly legs, in awe of stalks of grass. B’Elanna’s had been a series of flashes of static scenes—photographic negatives of significant events in her life, at first. And then rococo. And then chiaroscuro. And then romanticism. Or perhaps not in that order. But a sliding scale of light and dark in differing types of tableaux regardless—all of her thoughts and memories encapsulated individually in snapshots stacked on top of each other and then thumbed through quickly to create a rough moving picture, flickering and jerky.

She can’t now remember much about this incident, but she does remember the suspicion that Seska hadn’t been completely truthful. She can’t remember what she’d suspected Seska had lied about: maybe the nature of her trip or the degree to which she’d known that wine would’ve produced a trip.

But it’s a similar feeling as she’s got now, sitting in the mess hall waiting for Seven to show up. She’s sure that double helix had contained something decadent and disastrous, but she’s also sure Delaney hadn’t meant it that way even if she’d known about it previously. She trusts Delaney about this sort of thing for really no other reason than intuition. Regardless there’s the buzzing in her head and the heaviness in her limbs and the disconnect between verbal thoughts in the brain and how they come out too fluidly or too garbled.

She can’t remember what all she’d accomplished during her peak period of intoxication, but she has the vague feeling that she’d accomplished quite a lot, and that’s another reason she trusts Delaney’s intentions. She distinctly remembers that Delaney hadn’t asked any intrusive questions—just the regular intensely intimate nonsense high people ask—and hadn’t tried to get her to promise anything or make any bargains, bets, or transactions. It was just a loose, fun afternoon dicking around in the Venus sky bar, slipping thin slips of holographic latinum into lace undergarments of limber Orion ladies when they’d wanted to request a specific song, sometimes interacting with each other and sometimes doing their own stuff. They’d probably actually spent most of the time pointing at the other’s projects affably derisively and poking each other in the ribs and giggling. 

And they both had had projects they were working on and seemed to be making quite a lot of headway on. B’Elanna hadn’t known what Delaney had been up to on her PADD, but she herself had stream-of-consciousness written several pages of ideas for the sexy white tuxedo holoprogram she may or may not be required to design depending on the velocity outcome, another couple of pages of ideas for the dull holoprogram she’s challenged herself to design, a page of stuff she might need for her proposal for a staff lounge. A wave of nausea hits and with it a little more clarity in her brain as she continues to sober up: she remembers that although she knows and had known at the time she has already won the bet with Janeway about everyone’s knowing their business, she’d also drafted a few lines of Klingon love poetry just for kicks and as a special treat for a woman she admires who deserves the extra effort. She feels a certain amount of pride at how industrious she’s been, but the part of her that’s trying to emerge with just a pin light to guide it out from the deep fog of intoxication suspects that most of what she’s come up with is probably varying degrees of gobbledygook.

She blinks hard and looks into her coffee mug to steady herself. She is far from sober yet but can feel her body’s lurching attempts toward sobriety. She’ll probably have to go to sickbay and get a hypospray before Gamma shift. If those blue bastard drinks hadn’t been so strong, she would be able to skip seeing the Doctor’s smug face and having to endure whatever he’ll inevitably have to say about her and Janeway’s extracurricular activities. Perhaps something along the lines of: “Lieutenant Torres, let me remind you that the Captain’s physiology is not quite so robust as yours. As Chief Medical Officer, I have the authority to supersede the Captain and reprimand you to any degree I see fit—informally or formally—if you damage her in a way I deem too reckless or negligent. It is important to practice safe sex, especially if one is part Klingon.” Kahless, she doesn’t think she can survive that. Maybe she can bribe Tom to smuggle something out for her. No. That’s not the way to approach this. That just proves a main Janeway worry—that their affair will affect their professional ethics and their work performance. Not even a week in and she’s already toying with the idea of being corrupt and above the law. Maybe Tuvok’s conclusion that she would be a logical companion for Janeway had been premature and unfounded. Or maybe that’s exactly why they’re so compatible: they have similar temptations and similar resolve to not give into them when it counts.

Neelix is hustling over to her table with a fresh cup of coffee and a plate covered with a metal lid as he says brightly, 

“Good afternoon, Lieutenant.” He sets the stuff he’s holding down, leans on the table on his elbows right next to her, and says confidentially,

“I’ve been doing a little research on holistic, traditional methods to circumvent hangovers. If that’s of interest to you?” Neelix is looking at her with a knowing look but a polite question in his eyes.

“It might be of interest to me. Go on…” B’Elanna says.

“Well.” Neelix uncovers the plate with a dramatic flourish. It appears to be a well-marbled cut of steak with an expert-looking char on it and juice pooling around it, and stacked in a neat line on the edge of the plate, far away from the pool, an assortment of vitamin tablets. “My research has revealed that if you take a lot of B vitamins and eat a rare beef steak pan fried in butter and go to sleep in wet socks, you can circumvent any ill effects of alcohol.” 

She laughs. Sounds like quack medicine to her, but she’s never said no to red meat.

“Thanks,” B’Elanna says. “I’ll be sure to give you a full report on it.” He laughs, says,

“Much appreciated!” And he turns to go.

She downs the vitamins first, just in case that pool decides to enlarge, and then begins cutting. As she watches the serrated edge of her steak knife, she has a thought: maybe what Voyager needs is a barbershop. But then again, that would necessitate a barber that everyone knows and gossips to and would also necessitate newsfeeds for people to read as they wait or just sit around and bullshit. So not that.

The knife slips out of her hand suddenly, and she wipes her hands on her jeans. Her skin is still oily. After three or so blue drinks that had probably been laced with LSD or something even worse originating from some weirdo alien location, she and Jenny Delaney had switched the program over to Chell’s Bolian casino and had done a little oil wrestling. Well, B’Elanna had anyway. Delaney, incredibly blitzed because of not having the benefit of Klingon blood and probably more pertinently an extra Klingon liver, had not remembered how to get out of her bird outfit, and B’Elanna hadn’t been able to find the clasp. She had offered to rip it off, but Delaney had said Janeway probably wouldn’t like the phrasing of that and also if she didn’t want it covered in Bolian oil, she sure as shit didn’t want it shredded.

Half the steak is gone, and she’s thinking that maybe she could do with a baked potato to go with it. Or maybe those crab legs. She’s never had them and doesn’t know what they taste like, but she’s still rather fixated on them. Would they be greasy and sour like a serpent worm? Would they be savory like this steak? She’s burning with curiosity and yearning suddenly. She prepares to stand and find Neelix to demand crab legs, but as she’s got her hands braced on the edge of the table, she looks up to see Seven hovering opposite her.

“Lieutenant Torres,” Seven says. “I apologize for my tardiness.” She places a steaming mug on the table and then sits stiffly.

“No harm, no foul. I hadn’t even realized what time it was,” B’Elanna says as she removes her hands from where they’d been clenched on the table ledge, redirects herself to fiddling with her plate and cutlery in an effort to appear casual, as if she is completely in her right mind and had not just been about to verbally assault Neelix about a very dumb perceived slight.

They look at each other across the table as B’Elanna idly pushes meat around with her fork, and Seven sips at her drink. And then Seven’s gaze is so piercing as she puts down her cup very deliberately and decidedly. Her jaw tightens, and there’s that muscle jumping. Oh no.

“You are inebriated,” Seven says. B’Elanna can tell this is offensive to Seven for some reason. She’s hard pressed to immediately ascertain the why, though. She’s not on duty. No ship systems are in danger of being mishandled under her swollen, inept fingers and cloudy, meandering brain. Nobody’s life is at stake. She’s not sure if she should go on the offense or the defense. She says,

“No use denying it, I guess.” She takes another bite of her steak, and as she chews the suddenly cold and annoyingly fibrous meat, she watches Seven’s face. It’s so still except for that jumping muscle.

“I should not have allowed myself to believe you genuinely wished to engage with me civilly and constructively,” Seven says. She stands. B’Elanna stands, too, says,

“Hey! I didn’t plan on being toasted for our little rendez-vous! I didn’t plan on drinking today at all, in fact. But even though my original plans changed, I still remembered that I had an appointment with you and showed up for it. That ought to count for something!”

“It seems to me that in regards to interactions with me, whatever your intentions might allegedly originally be, the outcome is inevitably an egregious display of mockery,” Seven says.

“How am I mocking you by accidentally having a few too many on my day off? What goes on in your brain to make that have anything to do with you?” B’Elanna says. She only realizes her fists are clenched at her sides when she sees Seven take a deep breath through her nose and unclench her own fists at her own sides. B’Elanna thrusts her hands into the pockets of her jeans to try not to look so bellicose. And really, she truly does wonder about Seven’s thought processes. That’s why they’re standing here hissing at each other in the first place. She thinks she might like Seven, and she knows for a fact that she’s intrigued by how Seven thinks. She watches Seven contemplate for another second and then adds, “Seven. I promise I’m not trying to dick you around. I think we can be friends.”

The muscle in Seven’s jaw is no longer jumping. She lowers herself back down into her vacated chair. B’Elanna mirrors her as she maintains eye contact. Seven says,

“While a person under the influence of a mind-altering substance might be perceived to be fundamentally honest because that person’s inhibitions have been chemically extinguished, I do not concede that intoxication ubiquitously leads to veracity. And even if that person is perfectly honest in such a state, it is dubious as to whether the person will be adequately communicative. That was my thought process when I initially perceived you were intoxicated.”

“So you thought I met you here sloshed so that I could trick you into thinking I was being more honest than I might otherwise be because of the popular knowledge that drunks say the truth?” B’Elanna says.

“Yes. That was one possibility I had considered,” Seven says.

“That sounds like there were other possibilities you’d been considering,” B’Elanna says.

“I attempt to consider all possibilities,” Seven says. B’Elanna laughs. Of course Seven purports to consider all possibilities, and of course her considering is colored by her Borgness. If B’Elanna doesn’t laugh about it, she’d cry about it. She understands being not exactly one thing or another. She understands being confused by cultures that she ought to get by virtue of being part of them genetically but still not getting them because of circumstance. It’s the philosophical shit rubbed off from Chakotay and Janeway that lets her think this way, she thinks. Seven doesn’t have access to that yet, she thinks.

“How much do you know about shooting sports?” B’Elanna says.

“Velocity requires—” Seven starts, but B’Elanna cuts her off:

“I mean ancient firearms. Gunpowder and lead.”

“The Borg did not deem that information relevant enough to retain.”

“Well,” B’Elanna says. “In ancient shooting sport competitions, alcohol was considered a performance-enhancing drug. Get a few drinks in a rifleman, and he’s got an unfair advantage because his hands are steadier and his eye is sharper. So that’s a possibility that you haven’t considered.”

“Perhaps. But you have already disclosed that your alcohol consumption was unintentional,” Seven says. B’Elanna laughs again, says,

“So you do believe me! Quit trying so hard to find reasons that I’m trying to sabotage you and accept that we’re two sides of the same coin!”

Seven attempts to take a drink from her mug, but the contents very obviously disgust her, and she sets it back down on the table. She furrows her brow, cocks her head, says,

“‘Two sides of the same coin.’ Explain.”

“You’re Janeway’s pet Borg, and I’m Janeway’s pet Klingon. We both need taming,” B’Elanna says.

“You accept being someone’s pet?” Seven says, eyebrows raised. B’Elanna says:

“I suppose you haven’t ever experienced a cat. I don’t blame you. Cats are the fucking worst. They’re nominally pets but really they just do whatever they want. That’s how we are, Seven. Conditionally domesticated. Wolves gradually became dogs through mutual concessions and evolution. And those one-time alpha predators are now herding sheep or sitting in laps or jumping through flaming hoops as entertainment. That’s dogs for you. But cats. Cats domesticated themselves. Early humans sought out friendly wolves, but early cats saw a rat problem and strategized about how they could leverage their superiority at eradicating vermin. A safe warm place to sleep in exchange for the murder of various rodents.”

“Illuminating,” Seven says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it obvious that I myself was intoxicated when I wrote B’Elanna’s cat domestication rant? 😂


	15. Chapter 15

“First you’re injuring the Captain during what was no doubt needlessly reckless intercourse; now you’ve moved on to poisoning Crewman Delaney. What’s next, Lieutenant? Putting glass shards in Ensign Anderson’s body lotion?” the Doctor says.

“Of course not. That’d be too easy. I thought about maybe hunting Tal Celes for sport. Tricking her into thinking it’s what the Prophets would want,” B’Elanna says.

She’d done everything she could think of to avoid a trip to sickbay. She’d tried first the sleeping in wet socks, as per Neelix’s recommendation, but she’d woken up an hour later supremely uncomfortable and still pretty drunk. So then it had been the whole gamut: black coffee, cold shower, steam room, greasy food; none of which had had the desired effect, and her Gamma shift is imminent and she’s still just slightly drunk, so here she is facing the music. 

She guesses Seven’s little plan to get her too tired to perform adequately at velocity is going pretty swimmingly. Had Seven bribed Jenny Delaney to keep her occupied all day?! No, that’s absurd. Delaney is definitely the type who can be bought, but there’s no way she could be so committed as to harm herself. 

According to the Doctor, Delaney—he hadn’t actually revealed her identity because of confidentiality laws but it’d been obvious whom he’d been referring to—had already been in to see him, sick as a dog, to be treated for alcohol poisoning with a side of temporary acute psychosis brought on by hallucinogenics. Which, admittedly, is yikes to the max, and B’Elanna doesn’t feel super honorable about having been involved in any of that even though it had been Delaney’s idea in the first place. And it’s neither of their faults for believing that a holographic bar on a Federation star ship would not be serving drinks that have a high likelihood of killing you.

At least the Doctor is just making fun of her instead of reprimanding her. When he gets self-righteous and up on some pedestal, he’s even more insufferable than usual.

“All kidding aside, I am worried about you and the destructive decisions you seem to be making. Are you all right?” the Doctor says as he finally administers the hypospray. Ugh, so B’Elanna had thought too soon that she’d gotten out of a reprimand. She snaps,

“Where are you getting your information about what constitutes destructive behavior? A little just-this-side-of-vanilla sex after a prolongued period of abstinence and an unfamiliarity with the ingredients and effects of some weird blue slushee drink at a holographic version of a Venus sky bar and suddenly I’m a ticking time bomb? It’s not like I picked the Captain up in a seedy dive and proceeded to smack her around before I had my way with her and then threw a couple strips of latinum on top of her dresser as I left her residence. And it’s not like I went into a public access holoprogram at a public access time at 10am on a Monday intent on getting blitzed out of my mind and taking whoever ended up in the same program with me along for the ride. Geez, Doc. I promise I’m not a character in that gritty noir sex thriller holoprogram you like. A couple of ambiguously incriminating events just happened to occur in quick succession suggesting a correlation that just isn’t there.”

The Doctor makes a show of sanitizing the hypospray injector and replacing it on his tray, straightening the other implements there. His rigid back is toward B’Elanna as he says,

“Well. Excuse me for taking an interest in your well-being.”

“Ha! Taking an interest in gossip and nonsense, you mean,” B’elanna says. He wheels around to face her, says,

“I am a doctor, not a flibbertigibbet.” B’elanna rolls her eyes. Luckily, the hypospray has taken effect so the action doesn’t render her dizzy. He continues, “I mention any of this only because I want to make sure the chief engineer and anyone she might… influence is in peak condition.”

“Good save, Doctor,” B’elanna says. His eyes narrow. He says,

“It’s not a ‘save.’ It’s the truth.”

“Well, whatever it is, it’s unwarranted. I am perfectly fine.” She stands to go, and he puts his hand on her arm, says,

“Lieutenant. Before you leave. Might I at least ask you to please exercise a little more caution in your future… recreational activities?”

“I’ve learned my lesson about accepting drinks from Jenny Delaney, but I’m not sure how keen Janeway will be on the idea of wearing a helmet and knee pads in the bedroom.”

“Don’t be so flip. I’m merely suggesting considering a mouth guard,” he says. They stare at each other for half a second before he says, “A joke.”

“Solid effort,” B’elanna says flatly.

She’s analyzing and reanalyzing their interaction as she makes her way to the Bridge. Maybe he’s right. Maybe she is being reckless. But hasn’t she always been? Yes, she’s always been impulsive, but the difference is now that she and Janeway are a thing, there’s going to be more and closer scrutiny of any and all rash decisions she might make. It’s not fair exactly, but few things in life are. People are always accusing her of being too Klingon when she’s upset about something that’s perfectly reasonable to be upset about, and she can hardly defend herself about that because any defense becomes more aggressive as she becomes more agitated. A self-fulfilling prophecy. So at least when she’ll inevitably be accused of more reckless behavior because she thinks she can because she’s the Captain’s lover, and any defense she could give will fall on deaf ears, but at least with this matter there’s the upside that she gets to see Janeway naked. 

Harry’s Beta shift commander, and he walks over to her where she’s standing just inside the door. He smiles and says hi and hands her a PADD, but he’s looking anywhere but at her eyes.

“Harry,” she says. He finally does look at her, and she doesn’t know what to say to him because she doesn’t understand exactly why he’s so embarrassed.

“Um,” he says. “It’s been a quiet evening. We’ve been having a few anomalous readings coming from the deuterium conduction chambers that we’ve been monitoring. Probably no big deal, but something to keep an eye on. Other than that.” He shrugs. She puts a hand on his arm, says,

“Thanks. Anything else I should know? Maybe you’ve got a spare Command Manual lying around?”

“I put the relevant parts of it on the PADD I just gave you, actually,” he says, grinning.

“You’re always looking out for me, Starfleet. I appreciate that.” He opens his mouth to say something and then shuts it again, nods, salutes, and leaves.

Of all the people she’d thought would be weird about this whole thing, she hadn’t considered Harry would be one of them. She tries to put herself in his shoes: minding her own business dicking around in one of Tom’s holoprograms, having a nice time, and then in a very awkward scene it’s revealed that the Captain has a hickey, given to her by a close friend that she didn’t even know had a thing for the Captain. That would be pretty jarring. Especially with Harry’s Captain Mom thing he’s got going on.

She sits in the big chair and starts going over the PADD. Because the ship is in peak working order currently, Gamma’s even more of a skeleton crew than usual, and she feels a little dread creeping up her neck as she reads just how few people will be awake for her first time being in charge. At least she’s got Deb Lang as her security officer, and Carey’s in Engineering. Shimizu’s at Ops, and Culhane’s at the conn. She doesn’t know them as well. A whole shift together with nothing better to do might be a good opportunity for some small talk. She skims the rest of the twenty or so others in other parts of the ship and then to the highlighted sections of the Command Manual Harry had provided. She laughs out loud at the first paragraph. It’s not from the actual Starfleet official protocols. Harry’s typed out what Janeway always says: “1. Keep your shirt tucked in. 2. Never leave a crewman behind. 3. Go down with the ship.” She reads for another ten minutes before she feels her leg starting to jangle in restlessness and stands to stretch. Gonna be a long night.

She starts a circuit around the Bridge. She means to stop at the Engineering station and do some telecommuting, but her mind is wandering back to the Doctor and then to Seven. She just keeps saying all the wrong things to her. What’s the disconnect here? That they’re both stubborn assholes? She gets along fine with Janeway, who is also a stubborn asshole. And Chakotay, who’s more stubborn than asshole. And Tom, who’s more asshole than stubborn. She’s missing something, some essential element. And then of course, there it is: It’s that Seven thinks she’s against her and wants to deliberately hurt her feelings. If she can prove that she doesn’t have any ill will toward her, they can move past this point where everything B’Elanna says to her is being overanalyzed and taken as prelude to a fight or barring that not-so-subtle jab. Maybe she should throw the velocity match. No, that’d be another insult, patronizing. Maybe she should ask for her help with something, concede that Seven has a lot of knowledge and expertise. That might be an in. She’s not sure why she’s so worried about it. The thought occurs to her that perhaps she wants to be a better person because she wants to be worthy of being with Janeway, and it makes her want to gag. That’s the kind of stupid, sentimental, disgustingly romantic thing she’s never thought before, and she doesn’t want to start now, even if it is kind of true. That’s what she’d meant about domesticating herself, after all, isn’t it? She doesn’t know exactly what she’d meant, but surely it had been something as idiotic as that. She’s got to find something else to occupy her mind. She sits back in the command chair and takes up the PADD again. Maybe Harry’s got it set up with a section of no-win scenarios to puzzle through or something. No dice. She’s flipping through the data trying to find anything interesting when Shimizu says,

“Captain on the Bridge.” B’Elanna sets the PADD down on the console and hops up to attention to see Janeway in civvies—a chambray and leggings, her hair down and still damp, probably from a recent bath—with a neatly folded indeterminate garment held between her left arm and her body, sauntering onto the Bridge.

“At ease everybody,” Janeway says as she melts into the first officer’s chair. B’Elanna sits again, but tentatively.

“Hi,” B’Elanna says. “Checking that I’m not driving your ship into a black hole?” Janeway laughs, says,

“Nothing like that. I know how boring Gamma can be. So I wanted to give you something.” She pulls the garment out from where she’d still been clutching it and shakes it out to lay it flat over her lap. It’s a regulation-compliant Engineering smock with a lot of pockets. Janeway slides her hands over it to further smooth it down and then pulls a finger up to the collar, drags it over to point at the inside of the back of the neck, where B’Elanna’s name has been stitched in gold thread in careful, precise cursive. And then she slips her hand in and reaches into the inside pocket, pulls out a deck of playing cards. “A little something to pass the time.”

“Thanks. I’m sure both items will come in very handy. But, uh, Captain. Are my 72 hours up already?” Janeway rolls her eyes, says,

“Not technically. But every single person I’ve encountered today has blushed when they looked at me, if they could bring themselves to look at me at all, so I figured you’d won the bet. Might as well be a good sport about it.” She’s smiling and open and unbothered-looking, but B’Elanna’s not so sure that it isn’t a big deal. She’s fixating on those people who couldn’t bring themselves to look at Janeway, what that might mean for ship morale.

“Well. I do love to win. But. How do you feel about it?” B’Elanna says.

“If I must lose, I’d rather lose to you than anybody else.” They look at each other, and the humor leaves Janeway’s eyes. She places her hand on B’Elanna’s forearm, stares into her, says, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Just. You don’t mind that everybody knows?” Janeway pats her arm and then laces her fingers together over her crossed knees, says in a lower, more confidential tone,

“I’ve been thinking a lot about my recent conversations with Tuvok. And I’ve come to the conclusion that I shouldn’t mind. I do mind a little, mind you, but I’m well on the way to not minding so much. That is, if you don’t mind.” They stare at each other for a moment, and then B’Elanna remembers what Delaney had said to her, says,

“I don’t mind personally. But I’m wondering about how the crew might perceive us.”

“I’ve been thinking about that, too—”

“According to my intel, if we were to open up our velocity match as a public access holoprogram—”

“Ah, so the rumors about you and Jenny Delaney are true,” Janeway says. B’Elanna laughs. “There are no secrets on a ship this small, Folk Hero.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1.) I’m not really a sport girl, but I had a lot of fun fabricating the entirety of doubles velocity.
> 
> 2.) Might consider adding an epilogue if there’s any interest.

There hadn’t been a lot of indication in the previous discussions about tonight’s match about just how big of a thing it might turn out to be. It had started off so small and low-key, really just a ploy for a bunch of dummies with crushes to see each other in sweaty tank tops. And B’Elanna had thought the public-access holoprogram thing had mostly been in the realm of idea, especially considering all the unresolved animosity among the participants and the nature of everybody’s relationships. But there had been a lot she hasn’t been in on for the past twenty four hours. She’d heard some murmurs here and there on Alpha, but nobody had told her anything real, and she hadn’t been able to piece much together except that Seven and the Captain had reconciled and that the match would be open to the public. 

So she’s quite unprepared for what she walks into on Holodeck 2 in her assigned black shorts and fuchsia tank top. They’d only decided on doing a team color thing a few hours previous. She had just gotten off her double shift after having been highly intoxicated the day before and so had been half dead for the four-way video call. She had jokingly suggested shirts versus skins, and no one had laughed. Then she had asked whether they needed team names, as well. She had proposed the Coyotes for herself and Wildman, but specifically pronounced the hick way with two syllables instead of three. At that point, she had been told her input was no longer needed and that she should get a little rest before her imminent loss. She hadn’t been that offended and in fact may have been using a little outré Jenny Delaney/Susan Nicoletti tactic to get expelled so that she could have a power nap sooner rather than later.

Here she is standing not in the naked holodeck, which is typical for a regular old game, but to her chagrin a regulation Olympic velocity court all decked out with stadium seating filled with two to three dozen crew members, about half of which are wearing fuchsia tops or baseball caps. The other half are wearing emerald green, which is Janeway and Seven’s color. She wonders for a moment if she can get the crowd to start chanting “Ky-Oats! Ky-Oats!” just to spite the other players for having kicked her out of the group chat. Neelix is making the rounds of the bleachers with a hot dog cart. He is wearing a funky green sweater and slacks combo, both of which are patterned with nutty fuchsia paisleys and a fuchsia ball cap with a green brim. How had he replicated such an ensemble in such a short time? The man had talents she couldn’t begin to fathom and wouldn’t want to.

She’s arrived ten minutes early to stretch and discuss strategy, but she would’ve planned better if she’d known the others had signed off on this being not just a public event but a Public Event because of course Tom and Delaney are flanking her, both in fuchsia tops, dragging her to the dugout, where Wildman is already sitting on the bench. Naomi’s got a fuchsia Olympic velocity jumpsuit on, but she’s also wearing an emerald green ball cap. She’s rubbing her mother’s shoulders and giving her a pep talk with a totally serious and focused expression, as if she’s been the team coach all along. She ought to have a little fake cigar to chew on to complete the grizzled coach ambiance. B’Elanna deposits herself on the floor to start stretching, still contemplating the idea and laughing internally about it.

“Ok, here’s where we’re at,” Delaney says. “You still kind of look like shit—er—” she shoots an apologetic glance at the Wildmans. “Sorry. You still look crummy from yesterday’s shenanigans, and that’s like seventy five percent on me, so I did bring you a raktajino.” She sets it on the bench within B’Elanna’s reach.

“She did not bet on you to win, though,” Tom says. B’Elanna shrugs, says,

“Lose your replicator rations. That’s fine with me. I mean, look.” She points across the field to where Seven, Janeway, and Tuvok—who at least is neutrally in his regular uniform—are milling around in the opposite dugout, and Seven’s staring straight at Wildman, the closest thing to yearning a Borg will allow plain in her eyes. “If Seven’s got that look on her face before Sam’s even sweaty, I think we’ve got a good chance here.”

“Don’t be gross,” Wildman says.

“She’s not being gross, Mom. Unless you’re being gross when you unbutton your shirt a little bit before you play kadis-kot with Seven.”

“Oh-oh-oh! The truth comes out!” Tom says. Wildman blushes, says,

“I keep my quarters a little on the warm side because of Ktarian physiology.” Delaney opens her mouth, shuts it, then says,

“Naomi, plug your ears for a sec, hon,” Naomi rolls her eyes but does as she’s told. “Bullshit, Sam. You know exactly how to leverage your sex appeal, and I think it’s a better strategy than relying solely on B’Elanna’s athleticism.” She gives Naomi a thumbs up that it’s safe to unplug her ears.

“Ok, number one, ‘relying solely on B’Elanna’s athleticism’? I’ll have you know I’m an excellent shot. Maybe not so great at footwork but still! And number two, it’s different when it’s a private competition in one’s own quarters. A little flirtation over a glass of wine, a little teasing between friends,” Wildman says. “But this whole thing. This whole thing is just so stupid. I can’t believe we all let it balloon into this spectacle, let alone that the Captain is endorsing it and has convinced Seven it’s a good idea.” B’Elanna wonders why she hadn’t gotten a vote in this, but then again she had suggested it to Janeway, so maybe that had been her vote. It doesn’t really matter either way to her. There are a lot of things she doesn’t like a big audience to watch her doing, but playing a sport she’s good at isn’t one of them. She focuses back on what Wildman’s still saying, “And I’ll be damned if I let half the crew watch me make a fool of myself ‘accidentally’ running into Seven a lot. And yes, I know that works as a distraction because we played each other last night.”

“And who won?” B’Elanna says, genuinely curious as to how their skills might match up. She knows that she and Janeway are pretty evenly matched and that Wildman is decent to competent. But Wildman blushes even worse this time:

“We didn’t actually finish the game.”

“Something got finished though, I take it,” Tom says. Delaney elbows him in the ribs, says,

“Don’t be gross.”

“What got finished, then?” Naomi says.

“A conversation they had started earlier,” B’Elanna says. Naomi furrows her brow but drops it.

“Anyway, I’m not going to cheat like that. Even if it weren’t embarrassing,” Wildman says.

“It’s not cheating,” Tom says. “It’s an accepted and even expected part of the game. Right in the rule book. I mean, it’s basically designed to be aggressive, H-O-R-N-Y tennis.”

“I know how to spell, Uncle Tom,” Naomi says, and then she furrows her brow again and touches one of her horns with a finger tip quizzically.

“But really, Sam, how was she?” B’Elanna says. Wildman’s eyes flash in surprise and sudden rage. Whoopsie daisies. B’Elanna adds quickly to ameliorate her accidental suggestive wording, “At velocity. The game we’re about to play?” The anger recedes from Wildman’s face, and she pauses, visibly concentrating on remembering. She says,

“Accurate.”

“Is that your entire assessment?” B’Elanna says. Wildman clears her throat, says,

“It became clear by midway through round three that neither of us were that interested in the game.” They all laugh except for the Wildmans, the older of which scratching her neck with a highly uncomfortable look on her face. B’Elanna doesn’t want to risk a high five although she believes Wildman’s earned it. Good for her and that Borg petaQ. Maybe Wildman will mellow her out, and they can all be friends after this. Nevertheless, not much has come out of this strategy session. She swigs a little raktajino and then says,

“This has been such a good team meeting, everybody. I am so edified and way more prepared than I was five minutes ago.”

“You’re so very welcome. Goooooo Coyotes!” Delaney says. B’Elanna laughs. 

“We should do that thing that I’ve seen in the holovids that sports teams do,” Naomi says. Everyone looks at her, not getting it. “You know. That thing. Where we stand with our hands in a circle and yell.”

“That’s the best idea I’ve heard yet, actually,” B’Elanna says. They all remain in their current locations, though. B’Elanna looks at Naomi, says, “Well, Coach. You gonna lead us in that, or what?” Naomi grins and pokes at her mother’s shoulder so that she will stand up from the bench. B’Elanna stands, and Tom and Delaney shuffle around to join the circle. They all put their hands in, and Naomi shouts rhythmically,

“L-E-T-S G-O, let’s go, let’s go! L-E-T-S G-O! Let’s go! Gooooo—” Everybody joins her on this one. “—ooooooo Coyotes!”

They’re just in time. Harry and the Doctor are at the offense starting line, waiting for Neelix to give them the signal that everybody’s in place. The four players meet at center court, and Neelix waves his hat, and Harry starts playing the Federation anthem on his clarinet, and after a few bars of intro, here comes the Doctor’s tenor with the lyrics. B’Elanna wonders what the deal is here. Neither the Doctor nor Harry had seemed that keen on her and Janeway’s thing, so it’s probably something where neither of them wanted to be left out of something so many people were apparently invested in. Neelix had probably asked Harry somewhere that the Doctor had overheard and he had gotten pissy that he hadn’t been asked and Neelix had included him out of his infinite generosity. Speaking of, those hot dogs look delish, and she knows that somebody will have saved her a few, but she’s not as certain that one of those somebodies will have known about her preference for spicy mustard and sauerkraut on her hot dogs. Or at least some sweet relish. She doesn’t smell chili, unfortunately.

She zones back in at the last “as we travel through the universe,” and finally looks over to the defense starting line—where the referee for official games traditionally stands for the anthem —and there’s Chakotay in the striped shirt and everything. She’s wondering about that now, too. She guesses he’s no longer upset. Or maybe he’s the right amount of upset at half of both teams that he’s the most impartial guy for the job. Or maybe he and Janeway had had a talk she doesn’t know about. Or maybe, most likely, he’s just the sweetest man and wants his friends to be happy and his crew to have a good time.

He approaches center court and says,

“Doubles velocity, Olympic rules. Best of ten. Chatter allowed but no profanity. Full contact allowed, but no deliberate pushing or tackling, no deliberate head shots, no grabbing, no pulling of clothing.” He pauses, smiles, those gorgeous dimples lighting up his face. “Let’s have a good, clean match, ladies.” He dramatically pulls an oversized novelty coin from his shirt pocket, and the crowd goes wild. Which is always the weirdest part to B’Elanna. Velocity fans love the coin toss almost as much as they love a good dorsal slide or lateral backhand. Chakotay continues, “As per regulation, the youngest participant makes the call. Ms. Of Nine?”

“Heads, please, Commander,” Seven says.

He tosses it high in the air, and as it’s flipping up and up, he shouts to the crowd,

“Ms. Of Nine has called heads.” The crowd is silent. It takes what seems like an eternity for the coin to return to his waiting hand, where he cups it and places it on the back of his other hand. He takes the top hand away with a flourish, shouts, “Tails. Fuchsia takes first offense.” Several hoots and hollers erupt, as well as several boos and hisses. “Phasers at ready. Thirty second countdown to disk activation,” he says. He retreats to his assigned starting spot at the alpha player sideline halfway between the latitudes of offense starting line and center court so that the teams can banter privately—a velocity tradition, of course—before they retrieve their phasers from their respective starting lines and get in position.

Wildman sighs, says mechanically,

“Good hunting.” Seven’s looking at her very intensely, says,

“May your reflexes be quick and your recovery from unforeseen plays quicker.”

B’Elanna and Janeway are looking at each other, but the look between them isn’t intense in the same serious way that Seven and Wildman share. It’s intense instead in its conspicuously intentional levity.

“Qapla’, babe,” Janeway says.

“I was going to say the same to you,” B’Elanna says.

“Well you still can,” Janeway says.

“Qapla’, babe,” B’Elanna says. Janeway winks at her, and they all jog to their phasers.

B’Elanna wishes they’d had a few more times to practice together, to really get to know each other’s strengths and weaknesses as well as to decide on some code words for plays. They’ll have to use the standard “mine” and “yours” for who’s volleying an ambiguous bogey. But the one game had been enough to at least assess that Wildman’s skill set is better suited to alpha player, who does more stand-and-shoot stuff, whereas beta does most of the dancing for rebounds.

Wildman’s not in position yet, apparently having forgotten they’d agreed she’d be alpha, so B’Elanna glances over at Seven and makes sure she’s looking as she gives Wildman a get-to-getting ass pat in the alpha start line direction. It works both to get Wildman moving and to get Seven’s jaw muscle jumping. 

The disk activates at center court, glowing fuchsia, and Wildman gives it a solid hit, sending it toward Janeway, who’s playing alpha for emerald, and she slices it back to Wildman. It’s coming straight for her knee. B’Elanna probably would’ve just moved, but Wildman jumps over it, which is impressive but doesn’t allow for any counter moves that aren’t super tricky. B’Elanna slides in behind her and gets under the disk, sends it straight into the air so they can do something with it, and Wildman angles it right into mid-defense. Janeway and Seven both call it as theirs, which leads to neither of them shooting it, and B’Elanna takes their moment of confusion and gets low and squeezes off a shot that has the disk careening toward Janeway’s hip, but Seven cuts it off before it can get there, sends it back toward Wildman, who crouches this time so that B’Elanna can send it back to Seven. 

That’s the problem with doubles velocity. It’s more spread out, so there’s more time to aim. If anybody’s going to score any points, they’ve got to make it a closer game. A closer game is more dangerous and results in more friendly fire but is a lot more fun to both play and watch. And if everybody’s here, they might as well get a good show. B’Elanna starts inching in toward Janeway’s defense zone.

“I see what you’re doing there, Torres,” Janeway says.

“Just wanted a better view of your legs, Captain.”

“I thought you said they weren’t my best asset?”

“They’re not. Doesn’t mean I don’t like to look at them anyway.” Janeway laughs.

The disk is back to Wildman, who sends it over toward Janeway, who just tips it so that it’s going toward B’Elanna’s shoulder. She twists out of the way and shoots it into the wall so that it bounces back to the offense zone so Wildman can take it again. She’s gotten in closer to Seven, too, and feints a long shot but actually turns suddenly and spikes it right into Seven’s abdomen. Seven’s got a shocked look as if Sam would never. Janeway’s trying not to laugh. 

“Nice shot, Wildman!” B’Elanna says.

“Full impact. Round one, fuchsia. Emerald to offense,” Chakotay calls out. Half the crowd’s cheering, and B’Elanna laughs as she picks out Naomi’s voice yipping like a coyote. She finds her in the front row next to Tom and gives her a thumbs up and yips back. 

Now that Janeway and Seven know what kind of strategy B’Elanna and Wildman are playing, they get serious, and it’s an even tighter formation with alpha and beta just meters apart, all of them basically on top of each other. There’s a cheer of “Go Big Green” starting as round two heats up.

“Well, Big Green? You gonna go?” B’Elanna says right into Janeway’s ear from her position just behind her and to the right. She’s intercepted three of her shots, sticking so close to her that she pushes her hips into her every time either of them bring up their phaser.

“Get off me, you little shit,” Janeway pants.

“Ooh naughty language. Against the rules, Big Green.”

“You can’t very well tattle on me when you’re practically inside my body like this,” Janeway says.

“I’d love to be inside your body, but that would necessitate violating the no-pulling-on-clothes rule,” B’Elanna says. 

Seven’s just hit the disk into the wall behind them, probably figuring that it will ricochet and hit B’Elanna in the back while she’s distracted dirty talking. But she’s a good multitasker and shifts, still making nearly full body contact, to Janeway’s front. Janeway’s also a good multitasker, though, and she leans in and turns to avoid getting hit, and they both topple to the floor with Janeway straddling B’Elanna.

“That a phaser in your pocket, Captain, or is there another reason they call you Big Green?” Janeway raises an eyebrow and bucks her hips as she pokes her phaser a little more firmly against B’Elanna’s thigh, says,

“Been rummaging through my nightstand, have you?”

“No, but I’ll put it on my to-do list,” B’Elanna says. They both haul themselves up in time to dodge a Wildman volley, and Janeway shoots it in a pass to Seven, who slams it right back. B’Elanna is still in front of Janeway with her back to Seven, but she hears the zing, knows it’s coming for her, and drops to her knees. The disk just misses the top of her head and gets Janeway straight in the gut. She pitches forward from the blow, and B’Elanna reaches up to steady her. She looks up and makes eye contact, says,

“Funny enough, being in this position with you was already on my to-do list.” Janeway laughs but swats her hands away.

“Full impact. Round two, fuchsia. Fuchsia to offense,” Chakotay yells.

“Excuse me, Commander,” Seven says. “Lieutenant Torres violated the no-grabbing rule.” B’Elanna stands up, strides over to Seven.

“That was not a grab, and you know it,” B’Elanna says.

“You placed your hands on the Captain’s body in order to restrict her movement. That is technically a grab,” Seven says.

They’re right in each other’s faces.

“The round was over! After you hit your own teammate! Was I just supposed to let her fall down crotch first onto my face because you miscalculated?”

“I was under the impression that that particular outcome was your goal.”

“Ladies!” Chakotay says, pushing them apart by the shoulders. “I’m not calling a foul, but put a little space between you next round.”

No one follows that suggestion, however. Round three has Janeway using all the same tactics B’Elanna had, and even Seven’s playing a pretty close defense.

B’Elanna hears Deb Lang trying to start a fuchsia chant; unfortunately, she’s probably the only person who knows how to spell it, so it’s just her alone yelling, “F! F-U! F-U-C!” All slow and staccato. “F-U-C-Ayyyych-S-I-A!” All quick and staccato except for the elongated H. It could use a little work, but everybody seems to like the first half with all the F-Us and joins her for that.

Janeway apparently especially likes it and is whispering it in B’Elanna’s ear as she’s bouncing on the balls of her feet and running a finger along the exposed line of skin of B’Elanna’s back where her tank top has ridden up.

“I’m gonna tell Chakotay on you,” B’Elanna says.

“What rule am I breaking?”

“The being-a-little-shit rule.”

“That wasn’t a rule when you were doing it.”

“I wasn’t touching your naked flesh.”

“Just making sure you were between my legs at any available opportunity, is all,” Janeway says.

“We’ve discussed how much I like your legs.”

“Well I like your naked flesh. How about that?”

“The real reason you didn’t agree to shirts versus skins,” B’Elanna says.

The disk comes in low and fast, and B’Elanna squats to get under it to send it back, but Janeway leapfrogs over her, which throws off B’Elanna’s aim as Janeway uses her shoulder for leverage, and Janeway has time to immediately spin and clip it so that it smacks into B’Elanna’s bicep.

The crowd is on its feet for this maneuver. Even the fuchsia fans are losing their shit about how simultaneously silly and badass it had been.

“Full impact. Round three, emerald. Fuchsia switch alpha and beta. Emerald to offense,” Chakotay yells. Qu’vatlh. This is Olympic rules, where alpha and beta on the first offensive team have to switch after three rounds, and then alpha and beta on the first defensive team have to switch after the next three rounds. The remaining round is the teams’ preference.

“Pleasure doing business with you, F-U-C-Ayyyych-S-I-A,” Janeway says as B’Elanna crosses the court.

“According to your teammate’s logic, that was technically a tackle, but I’m not going to press the issue,” B’Elanna says over her shoulder.

“Ha! How so?” Janeway says.

“You placed your hands on my body to alter the course of my movement so that I wouldn’t be able to hit the target, babe,” B’Elanna says.

“Did not! There’s no rule against placing my hands on your body to propel myself, and that was my sole intention.”

“No need to argue with me. I said I wasn’t pressing the issue.”

“Enough! Get to your lines already!” Chakotay says.

A few boos from the crowd. They probably dig the petty semantics.

B’Elanna stands at her starting line and weighs her options. If she keeps on doing the same defense, she’s likely to get Seven riled up, which could work in her favor if Seven has a bad enough temper to lose her cool and deck her. They’re ahead by only one point, and the game is still young, but she’ll give it a trial run, reevaluate at round five.

Janeway punts it to center, obviously trying to bait either Wildman or B’Elanna into coming in farther than they’d like and setting Seven up for an easy shot. But neither of them fall for it and stand perfectly still. It’s still on offense turf just barely—probably because Janeway usually plays singles and isn’t practiced up at strategic meatballs—so if it hits the ground, it ends the round with no points awarded to either team. Seven slides and catches it a few inches from splat, wings it to bounce off the wall. Janeway goes to shoot it just to get it out of offense, but Wildman shoots it at the exact same time, and the double shot stills it in the air, so B’Elanna makes a jump shot and gets still prone Seven in the hamstring with it.

Naomi has either recruited or inspired others by now, and several yips pierce the air.

“Full impact. Round four, fuchsia. Fuchsia to offense,” Chakotay says.

B’Elanna aims precisely so that her phaser beam tips the very edge of the disk, sending it flipping end over end into defense territory. A disk that isn’t flying straight is much harder to hit, and she’s given it enough force that if it goes down, it’ll be on defense, awarding offense the point. But Wildman really is an excellent shot, and the disk straightens out to hit the wall and jump back to center court. Seven slides her arm around B’Elanna beneath her phaser arm, and the feeling of Seven against her is so foreign and unexpected that she hesitates, and Seven takes the shot before she can. The disk pitches toward Janeway. She waits until it’s about one second from hitting her and then weaves so that it connects with the wall, and she blasts it into Wildman’s calf.

This one is not as exciting to the crowd. The applause is tepid.

“Full impact. Round five, emerald. Emerald to offense,” Chakotay says.

Janeway takes the opposite approach to her last offense this time, gives it a sharp, quick jolt to the corner, where it bounces off the wall upward, hits the ceiling, and descends in a direct trajectory for B’Elanna. B’Elanna shoots it straight back toward the wall, then ducks. Seven shoots it at an angle toward the wall, and it whips around toward Wildman, who takes a step back to brace herself for the shot she’s about to take but trips over Janeway, who’s right up against her back. Wildman falls into her and they both smash down onto the floor, and Wildman manages to squeeze off a shot that tips the disk up to bounce off the ceiling and then straight down. Seven and B’Elanna both lunge for it and bonk heads as they do so, and neither of them make the shot. From underneath Wildman, Janeway somehow gets the trigger pulled, and the disk knocks the phaser right out of B’Elanna’s hand.

If the crowd hadn’t thought their Captain was a goddess before this, they certainly do now, and everybody’s screaming. Some screams are more flabbergasted than celebratory, though.

“Full impact. Round six, emerald. Emerald switch alpha and beta. Fuchsia to offense,” Chakotay says.

The next three rounds go pretty much the same way as the first six had—close defense, innuendo, some rolling around on the floor, the crowd’s experiments with different chants. At the start of round ten, it’s five-to-four favoring emerald, and the configuration as determined by team preference is offense Seven alpha, Janeway beta and defense B’Elanna alpha and Wildman beta. They’re all clearly pretty tired by this point. Doubles on paper might suggest half the individual work, but because there are more variables and more bodies, in practice doubles is actually double the work at least, and they’re all noticeably feeling it.

Seven lines up her opening shot, and the disk slices directly but rather benignly to B’Elanna, as if they’re a dad and son playing catch in the backyard rather than coworkers who don’t like each other engaged in a public battle of wits and skill. B’Elanna steels herself, bats it back to Wildman, who cuts it toward Seven, who tosses it to Janeway, who feints a pass to Seven and then backhands it hard and fast toward Wildman. 

“Can’t wait to fuck you in the holoprogram you design upon losing our bet,” Janeway says.

Wildman barely dodges and clips it as soon as it ricochets off the wall. Seven shoots it toward B’Elanna, who catches it high so that it bumps the ceiling and juts fast to center.

“Can’t wait to fuck you in your white tuxedo in the bathroom at Neelix’s next party when you lose our bet,” B’Elanna says.

Wildman lurches and gets in behind it, gives it the momentum to scrape Seven’s forearm.

The crowd screeches all kinds of different screeches, with a lot of yips here and there.

“Full impact. Round ten, fuchsia. Tied game. Both teams, center court,” Chakotay says.

They all drag their carcasses to center court. Chakotay addresses the crowd more than he says to the teams,

“Forfeiture or overtime, decided after a one-minute time out.”

The crowd is all harrumphs and incomprehensible muttering.

“I don’t need a minute,” Wildman says. “I refuse to participate in overtime. The Chief and the Captain are ridiculous.”

“I concur,” Seven says. “Lieutenant Torres and Captain Janeway have flagrantly skirted the rules and regulations. I also refuse to participate in overtime.”

The crowd is making a lot of discombobulated sounds.

Chakotay rubs his chin thoughtfully, then says,

“Fuchsia five, emerald five. Forfeiture and overtime vetoed. Match is officially a draw.”

He gestures toward Harry and the Doctor, and they emerge from the stands to take their places at offense starting line to perform the exit hymn. There’s no intro, just the Doctor’s clear voice:

“It’s been a long road, getting from there to here.”

And then Harry’s accompaniment comes in along with Megan Delaney—who had trailed them out onto the court—on tambourine.

The crowd that hasn’t already left shout-sings along:

“AND THEY’RE NOT GONNA HOLD ME DOWN NO MORE; NO THEY’RE NOT GONNA CHANGE MY MIND.”

Seven and Wildman look at each other significantly and exit together. B’Elanna and Janeway look at each other and do not exit.

“‘CAUSE I’VE GOT FAITH OF THE HEAR-AR-ART—” the crowd sings.

“Well,” Janeway says. “What do we do about an impasse?”

“The most equitable solution would be meeting in the middle somehow,” B’Elanna says.

“NO ONE’S GONNA BEND OR BREAK ME,” the crowd sings.

“The middle?” Janeway says skeptically.

“Maybe we should both hit the showers and then meet up later in the Coeur de Lion,” B’Elanna says.

“Good idea,” Janeway says. “I think I’ll keep you.”


End file.
